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The story of little Nell

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Cornell University
Library

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ECLECTIC SCHOOL READINGS

THE STORY

OF

LITTLE NELL

BY

CHARLES DICKENS

EDITED WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY

JANE GORDON

NEW YORK <* CINCINNATI *> CHICAGO
AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY

"PZ3
D5r 091

Copyright, igoi, by
AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY.

Story of Little Nell.

G>2ff+d

INTRODUCTION.

The story of Little Nell comprises the groundwork
and much the larger portion of Dickens's " Old Curiosity-
Shop," first published in 1840-41. It is given in the pres-
ent volume just as Dickens wrote it, but freed from the
various episodes and other passages originally employed
to introduce other characters and to give greater variety
to the narrative. The story thus abridged, and confined
. solely to the relation of the pathetic adventures of its
heroine, will appeal especially to young readers whom
the complete novel would perhaps repel by reason of its
great length and the complexity of its plot. They will
scarcely fail to perceive the beauty and the pathos of the
story as a whole, nor to admire the courage, the self-de-
nial, and the simple goodness of Little Nell herself.

The character of Little Nell was a great favorite with
Dickens. He was occupied for more than a year in writ-
ing the story, and she was to him more like a real child
than a mere fancy born of his brain. Her death caused
him real pain. In a letter to a friend, he wrote, " Nobody
will miss her as I shall." In another letter he said, " I
took my desk upstairs ; and writing until four o'clock in
the morning, finished the old story. It makes me melan-
choly to think that all these people are lost to me for-
ever, and I feel as if I could never become attached to
any new set of characters."

THE
STORY OF LITTLE NELL

CHAPTER THE FIRST.

Night is generally my time for walking. In the sum-
mer I often leave home early in the morning, and roam
about fields and lanes all day, or even escape for days or
weeks together, but saving in the country I seldom go out
until after dark, though, Heaven be thanked, I love its
light and feel the cheerfulness it sheds upon the earth, as
much as any creature living.

One night I had roamed into the city, and was walking
slowly on in my usual way, musing upon a great many
things, when I was arrested by an inquiry, the purport of
which did not reach me, but which seemed to be addressed
to myself, and was preferred in a soft sweet voice that
struck me very pleasantly. I turned hastily round and
found at my elbow a pretty little girl, who seemed about
thirteen or fourteen years old, who begged to be directed
to a certain street at a considerable distance, and indeed
in quite another quarter of the town.

" It is a very long way from here," said I, " my child."

" I know that, Sir," she replied timidly. " I am afraid
it is a very long way, for I came from there to-night."

"Alone?" said I, in some surprise.

" Oh yes, I don't mind that, but I am a little frightened
now, for I had lost my road."

" And what made you ask it of me ? Suppose I should
tell you wrong."

5

" I am sure you will not do that," said the little crea-
ture, " you are such a very old gentleman, and walk so
slow yourself."

I cannot describe how much I was impressed by this
appeal and the energy with which it was made, which
brought a tear into the child's clear eye, and made her
slight figure tremble as she looked up into my face.

"Come," said I, " I'll take you there."

She put her hand in mine as confidingly as if she had
known me from her cradle, and we trudged away together:
the little creature accommodating her pace to mine, and
rather seeming to lead and take care of me than I to be
protecting her. I observed that every now and then she
stole a curious look at my face as if to make quite sure
that I was not deceiving her, and that these glances (very
sharp and keen they were too) seemed to increase her con-
fidence at every repetition.

For my part, my curiosity and interest were at least
equal to the child's, for child she certainly was, although "
I thought it probable from what I could make out, that
her very small and delicate frame imparted a peculiar
youthfulness to her appearance. Though more scantily
attired than she might have been, she was dressed with
perfect neatness, and betrayed no marks of poverty or
neglect.

" Who' has sent you so far by yourself ? " said I.

" Somebody who is very kind to me, Sir."

" And what have you been doing ? "

" That, I must not tell," said the child firmly.

There was something in the manner of this reply which
caused me to look at the little creature with an involuntary
expression of surprise ; for I wondered what kind of er-
rand it might be that occasioned her to be prepared for
questioning. Her quick eye seemed to read my thoughts,
for as it met mine she added that there was no harm in

what she had been doing, but it was a great secret — a
secret which she did not even know herself.

This was said with no appearance of cunning or deceit,
but with an unsuspicious frankness that bore the impress
of truth. She walked on as before, growing more familiar
with me as we proceeded and talking cheerfully by the
way, but she said no more about her home, beyond remark-
ing that we were going quite a new road and asking if it
were a short one.

While we were thus engaged, I revolved in my mind a
hundred different explanations of the riddle and rejected
them every one. I really felt ashamed to take advantage
of the ingenuousness or grateful feeling of the child for
the purpose of gratifying my curiosity. I love these little
people ; and it is not a slight thing when they, who are so
fresh from God, love us. As I had felt pleased at first by
her confidence I determined to' deserve it, and to do credit
to the nature which had prompted her to repose it in me.

There was no reason, however, why I should refrain
from seeing the person who had inconsiderately sent her
to so great a distance by night and alone, and as it was
not improbable that if she found herself near home she
might take farewell of me and deprive me of the opportu-
nity, I avoided the most frequented ways and took the
most intricate, and thus it was not until we arrived in the
street itself that she knew where we were. Clapping her
hands with pleasure and running on before me for ashort
distance, my little acquaintance stopped at a door and
remaining on the step till I came up knocked at it when I
joined her.

A part of this door was. of glass unprotected by any
shutter, which I did not observe at first, for all was very
dark and silent within, and I was anxious (as indeed the,
child was also) for an answer to our summons. When
she had knocked twice or thrice there was a noise as if

8

some person were moving inside, and at length a faint
light appeared through the glass which, as it approached
very slowly, the bearer having to make his way through a
great many scattered articles, enabled me to see both
what kind of person it was who advanced and what kind
of place it was through which he came.

It was a little old man with long gray hair, whose face
and figure as he held the light above his head and looked
before him as he approached, I could plainly see. Though
much altered by age, I fancied I could recognize in his
spare and slender form something of that delicate mold
which I had noticed in the child. The'ir bright blue eyes
were certainly alike, but his face was so deeply furrowed
and so very full of care, that here all resemblance ceased.

The place through which he made his way at leisure was
one of those receptacles for old and curious things which
seem to crouch in odd corners of this town and to hide
their musty treasures from the public eye in jealousy and
distrust. There were suits of mail standing like ghosts
in armor here and there, fantastic carvings brought from
monkish cloisters, rusty weapons of various kinds, dis-
torted figures in china and wood and iron and ivory : tap-
estry and strange furniture that might have been designed
in dreams. The haggard aspect of the little oldS man was
wonderfully suited to the place ; he might have groped
among old churches and tombs and deserted houses and
gathered all the spoils with his own hands. There was
nothing in the whole collection but was in keeping with
himself ; nothing that looked older or more worn than he.

As he turned the key in the lock, he surveyed me with
some astonishment which was not diminished when he
looked from me to my companion. The door being
opened, the child addressed him as grandfather, and told
him the little story of our companionship.

" Why bless thee, child," said the* old man, patting her

on the head, " how couldst thou miss thy way ? What if I
had lost thee, Nell ! "

"I would have found my way back to you, grandfather,"
said the child boldly, " never fear."

The old man kissed her, then turning to me and begging
me to walk in, I did so. The door was closed and locked.
Preceding me with the light, he led me through the place
I had already seen from without, into a small sitting-room
behind, in which was another door opening into a kind of
closet, where I saw a little bed that a fairy might have
slept in, it looked so very small and was so prettily ar-
ranged. The child took a candle and tripped into this
little room, leaving the old man and me together.

"You must be tired, Sir," said he as he placed a chair
near the fire, " how can I thank you ? "

" By taking more care of your grandchild another time,
my good friend," I replied.

" More care ! " said the old man in a shrill voice, " more
care of Nelly ! Why, who ever loved a child as I love
Nell ? "

He said this with such evident surprise that I was per-
plexed what answer to make, and the more so because
coupled with something feeble and wandering in his man-
ner, there were in his face marks of deep and anxious
thought which convinced me that he could not be, as I
had been at first inclined t'o suppose, in a state of dotage
or imbecility.

" I don't think you consider — " I began.

" I don't consider ! " cried the old man interrupting me,
" I don't consider her ! Ah, how little you know of the
truth ! Little Nelly, little Nelly ! "

It would be impossible for any man, I care not what his
form of speech might be, to express more affection than
the dealer in curiosities did, in these four words. I waited
for him to speak again, but he rested his chin upon his

IO

hand and shaking his head twice or thrice fixed his eyes
upon the fire.

While we were sitting thus in silence, the door of the
closet opened, and the child returned, her light brown
hair hanging loose about her neck, and her face flushed
with the haste she had made to rejoin us. She busied
herself immediately in preparing supper, and while she
was thus engaged I remarked that the old man took an
opportunity of observing me more closely than he had
done yet. I was surprised to see that all this time every-
thing was done by the child, and that there appeared to
be no other persons but ourselves in the house. I took
advantage of a moment when she was absent to venture a
hint on this point, to which the old man replied that there
were few grown persons as • trustworthy or as careful as
she.

" It always grieves me," I observed, roused by what I
took to be his selfishness, " it always grieves me to con-
template the initiation of children into the ways of life,
when they are scarcely more than infants. It checks
their confidence and simplicity — two of the best qualities
that Heaven gives them — and demands that they share
our sorrows before they are capable of entering into our
enjoyments."

"It will never check hers," said the old man looking \
steadily at me, " the springs are too deep. Besides, the
children of the poor know but few pleasures. Even the
cheap delights of childhood must be bought and paid for."

" But — forgive me for saying this — you are surely not
so very poor " — said I.

" She is not my child, Sir," returned the old man. " Her
mother was, and she was poor. I save nothing — not a
penny — though I live as you see, but " — he laid his hand
upon my arm and leaned forward to whisper — " she shall be
rich one of these days, and a fine lady. Don't you think

II

ill of me, because I use her help. She gives it cheer-
fully as you see, and it would break her heart if she knew
that I suffered anybody else to do for me what her little
hands could undertake. I don't consider ! "—he cried
with sudden querulousness, " why, God knows that this
one child is the thought and object of my life, and yet he
never prospers me — no, never ! "

At this juncture, the subject of our conversation again
returned, and the old man, motioning me to approach the
table, broke off, and said no more.

We had scarcely begun our repast when there was a
knock at the door by which I had entered, and Nell burst-
ing into a hearty laugh, which I was rejoiced to hear, for
it was childlike and full of hilarity, said it was no doubt
dear old Kit come back at last.

"Foolish Nell!" said the old man fondling with her
hair. " She always laughs at poor Kit."

The child laughed again more heartily than before, and
I could not help smiling from pure sympathy. The little
old man took up a candle and went to open the door.
When he came back, Kit was at his heels.

Kit was a shock-headed, shambling, awkward lad with an
uncommonly wide mouth, very red cheeks, a turned-up
nose, and certainly the most comical expression of face
I ever saw. He stopped short at the door on seeing a
stranger, twirled in his hand a perfectly round old hat
withput any vestige of a brim, and resting himself now
on one leg and now on the other and changing them con-
stantly, stood in the doorway, looking into the parlor
with the most extraordinary leer I ever beheld, I enter-
tained a grateful feeling towards the boy from that min-
ute, for I felt that he was the comedy of the child's life.

" A long way, -wasn't it, Kit ? " said the little old man.

" Why then, it was a goodish stretch, master," returned
Kit.

12

" Did you find the house easily ? "

"Why then, not over and above easy, master," said Kit.

" Of course you have come back hungry ? "

" Why then, I do consider myself rather so, master,"
was the answer.

The lad had a remarkable manner of standing sideways
as he spoke, and thrusting his head forward over his
shoulder, as if he could not get at his voice without that
accompanying action. I think he would have amused
one anywhere, but the child's exquisite enjoyment of his
oddity, and the relief it was to find that there was some-
thing she associated with merriment in a place that ap-
peared so unsuited to her, were quite irresistible. It was
a great point too that Kit himself was flattered by the
sensation he created, and after several efforts to preserve
his gravity, burst into a loud roar, and so stood with his
mouth wide open and his eyes nearly shut, laughing vio-
lently.

The old man had again relapsed into his former ab-
straction and took no notice of what passed, but I remarked
that when her laugh was over, the child's bright eyes
were dimmed with tears, called forth by the fullness of
heart with which she welcomed her uncouth favorite
after the little anxiety of the night. As for Kit himself
- (whose laugh had been all the time one of that sort which
very little would change into a cry) he carried a large
slice of bread and meat into a corner, and applied himself
to disposing of them with great voracity.
* " Ah ! " said trie old man turning to me with a sigh as
if I had spoken to him but that moment, " you don't know
i what you say when you tell me that I don't consider her."
I " You must not attach too great weight to a remark
founded on first appearances, my friend," said I.

" No," returned the old man thoughtfully, " no. Come
hither, Nell."

13

The little girl hastened from her seat, and put her arm
about his neck.

" Dp I love thee, Nell ? " said he. " Say — do I love
thee, Nell, or no ? "

The child only answered by her caresses, and laid her
head upon his breast.

" Why dost thou sob," said the grandfather pressing her
closer to him and glancing towards me. " Is it because
thou know'st I love thee, and dost not like that I should
seem to doubt it by my question ? Well, well — then let
us say I love thee dearly."

" Indeed, indeed you do," replied the child with great
earnestness, " Kit knows you do."

Kit, who in despatching his bread and meat had been
swallowing two thirds of his knife at every mouthful with
the coolness of a juggler, stopped short in his operations
on being thus appealed to, and bawled " Nobody isn't
such a fool as to say he doesn't," after which he incapaci-
tated himself for further conversation by taking a most
prodigious sandwich at one bite. "

" She is poor now " — said the old man patting the
child's cheek, " but I say again that the time is coming
when she shall be rich. It has been a long time coming,
but it must come at last ; a very long time, but it surely
must come. It has come to other men who do nothing
but waste and riot. When will it come to me ! "

"I am very happy as I am, grandfather," said the
child.

" Tush, tush ! " returned the old man, " thou dost not^
know — how should'st thou ! " Then he muttered again
between his teeth, " The time must come, I am very sure
it must. It will be all the better for coming late ; " and
then he sighed and fell into his former musing state, and
still holding the child between his knees appeared to be
insensible to everything around him. By this time it

wanted but a few minutes of midnight and I rose to go,
which recalled him to himself.

. " One moment, Sir," he said. " Now, Kit— near mid-
night, boy, and you still here ! Get home, get home, and
be true to your time in the morning, for there's work to
do. Good night ! There, bid him good night, Nell, and
let him be gone ! "

" Good night, Kit," said the child, her eyes lighting up
with merriment and kindness.

" Good night, Miss Nell," returned the boy.

" And thank this gentleman," interposed the old man,
" but for whose care I might have lost my little girl to-
night."

" No, no, master," said Kit, " that won't do, that
won't."

" What do you mean ? " cried the old man.

" I'd have found her, master," said Kit, " I'd have
found her. I'd bet that I'd find her if she was above
ground, I would, as quick as anybody, master. Ha ! ha !
ha!"

Once more opening his mouth and shutting his eyes,
and laughing like a stentor, Kit gradually backed to the
door, and roared himself out;

Free of the room, the boy was not slow in taking his
departure ; when he had gone, and the child was occupied
in clearing the table, the old man said:

" I haven't seemed to thank you, Sir, enough for what
you have done to-night, but I do. thank you humbly and
heartily, and so does she, and her thanks are better worth
than mine. I should be sorry that you went away and
thought I was unmindful of your goodness, or careless of
her — I am not indeed."

I was sure of that, I said, from what I had seen. " But,"
I added, " may I ask you a question ? "

" Ay, Sir," replied the old man, " what is it ? "

15

" This delicate child," said I, " with so much beauty
and intelligence — has she nobody to care for her but you ?
Has she no other companion or adviser ? "

" No," he returned looking anxiously in my face, " no,
and she wants no other."

" But are you not fearful," said I, " that you may mis-
understand a charge so tender? I am sure you mean
well, but are you quite certain that you know how to
execute such a trust as this ? I am an old man, like you,
and I am actuated by an old man's concern in all that is
young and promising. Do you not think that what I have
seen of you and this little creature to-night must have an
interest not wholly free from pain ? "

" Sir," rejoined the old man after a moment's silence,
" I have no right to feel hurt at what you say. It is true
that in many respects I am the child, and she the grown
person — that you have seen already. But waking or
sleeping, by night or day, in sickness or health, she is the
one object of my care, and if you knew of how much care,
you would look on me with different eyes, you would in-
deed. Ah ! it's a weary life for an old man — a weary,
weary life — but there is a great end to gain and that I keep
before me."

Seeing that he was in a state of excitement and im-
patience, I turned to put on an outer coat which I had
thrown off on entering the room, purposing to say no more.
I was surprised to see the child standing patiently by
with a cloak upon her arm, and in her hand a hat and
stick.

" Those are not mine, my dear," said I.

" No," returned the child quietly, " they are grand-
father's."

" But he is not going out to-night."

" Oh yes he is," said the child, with a smile.

" And what becomes of you, my pretty one ?"

i6

" Me ! I stay here of course. I always do."

I looked in astonishment towards the old man, but he
was, or feigned to be, busied in the arrangement of his
dress. From him I looked back to the slight gentle figure
of the child. Alone ! In that gloomy place all the long,
dreary night.

She evinced no consciousness of my surprise, but cheer-
fully helped the old man with his cloak, and when he was
ready took a candle to light us out. Finding that we did
not follow as she expected, she looked back with a smile
and waited for us. The old man showed by his face that
he plainly understood the cause of my hesitation, but he
merely signed to me with an inclination of the head to
pass out of the room before him, and remained silent. I
had no resource but to comply.

When we reached the door the child, setting down the
candle, turned to say good night and raised her face to
kiss me. Then she ran to the old man, who folded her in
his arms and bade God bless her.

" Sleep soundly, Nell," he said in a low voice, " and an-
gels guard thy bed ! Do not forget thy prayers, my
sweet."

" No indeed," answered the child fervently, " they make
me feel so happy ! "

" That's well ; I know they do ; they should," said the
old man. "Bless thee a hundred times! Early in the
morning I shall be home."

" You'll not ring twice," returned the child. " The bell
wakes me, even in the middle of a dream."

With this, they separated. The child opened the door
(now guarded by a shutter which I had heard the boy put
up before he left the house) and with another farewell,
whose clear and tender note I have recalled a thousand
times, held it until we had passed out. The old man
paused a moment while it was gently closed and fastened

i7

on the inside, and, satisfied that this was done, walked on at
a slow pace. At the street corner he stopped, and regard-
ing me with a troubled countenance said that our ways
were widely different and that he must take his leave. I
would have spoken, but summoning up more alacrity than
might have been expected in one of his appearance, he
hurried away. I could see that twice or thrice he looked
back as if to ascertain if I were still watching him, or per-
haps to assure himself that I was not following at a
distance. The obscurity of the night favored his disap-
pearance, and' his figure was soon beyond my sight.

I remained standing on the spot where he had left me,
unwilling to depart, and yet unknowing why I should
loiter there. I looked wistfully into the street we had
lately quitted, and after a time directed my steps that way.
I passed and repassed the house, and stopped and listened
at the door; all was dark, and silent as the grave.

Yet I lingered about, and could not tear myself away,
thinking of all possible harm that might happen to the
child — of fires and robberies and even murder — and feel-
ing as if some evil must ensue if I turned my back upon
the place. The closing of a door or a window in the street
brought me before the curiosity dealer's once more ; I
crossed the road and looked up at the house to assure my-
self that the noise had not come from there. No, it was
black, cold, and lifeless as before.

There were few passengers astir ; the street was sad
and dismal, and pretty well my own. A few stragglers
from the theaters hurried by, and now and then I turned
aside to avoid some noisy drunkard as he reeled home-
wards, but these interruptions were not frequent and soon
ceased. The clocks struck one. Still I paced up and
down, promising myself that every time should be the
last, and breaking faith with myself on some new plea as
often as I did so.

Little JVeII.—2.

i8

The more I thought of what the old man had said, and
of his looks and bearing, the less I could account for what
I had seen and heard. I had a strong misgiving that his
nightly absence was for no good purpose. I had only
come' to know the fact through the innocence of the child,
and though the old man was by at the time, and saw my
undisguised surprise, he had preserved a strange mystery
upon the subject and offered no word of explanation.
These reflections naturally recalled again more strongly
than before his haggard face, his wandering manner, his
restless, anxious looks. His affection for the child might
not be inconsistent with villainy of the worst kind ; even
that very affection was in itself an extraordinary contra-
diction, or how could he leave her thus ? Disposed as I
was to think badly of him, I never doubted that his love
for her was real. I could not admit the thought, remem-
bering what had passed between us, and the tone of voice
in which he had called her by her name.

" Stay here of course," the child had said in answer to
my question, " I always do ! " What could take him from
home by night, and every night ! I called up all the
strange tales I had ever heard of dark and secret deeds
committed in great towns and escaping detection for a
long series of years ; wild as many of these stories were, 1
could not find one adapted to this mystery, which only
became the more impenetrable, in proportion as I sought
to solve it.

Occupied with such thoughts as these, and a crowd of
others all tending to the same point, I continued to pace the
street for two long hours ; at length the rain began to de-
scend heavily, and then overpowered by fatigue, though
no less interested than I had been at first, I engaged the
nearest coach and so got home. A cheerful fire was blaz-
ing on the hearth, the lamp burned brightly, my clock re-
ceived me with its old familiar welcome ; everything was

19

quiet, warm, and cheering, and in happy contrast to the
gloom and darkness I had quitted.

But all that night, waking or in my sleep, the same
thoughts recurred and the same images retained posses-
sion of my brain. I had ever before me the old dark
murky rooms — the gaunt suits of mail with their ghostly
silent air — the faces all awry, grinning from wood and
stone — the dust and rust and worm that lives in wood —
and alone in the midst of all this lumber and decay and
ugly age, the beautiful child in her gentle slumber, smil-
ing through her light and sunny dreams.

CHAPTER THE SECOND.

After combating, for nearly a week, the feeling which
impelled me to revisit the place I had quitted under the
circumstances already detailed, I yielded to it at length ;
and determining that this time I would present myself by
the light of day, bent my steps thither early in the after-
noon.

I walked past the house, and took several turns in the
street, with that kind of hesitation which is natural to a
man who is conscious that the visit he is about to pay is
unexpected, and may not be very acceptable. However,
as the door of the shop was shut, and it did not appear
likely that I should be recognized by those within, if I
continued merely to pass up and down before it, I soon
conquered this irresolution, and found myself in the
curiosity dealer's warehouse.

The old man, advancing hastily towards me, said in a
tremulous tone that he was very glad I had come.

After taking a seat I looked about for the child and not
seeing her inquired where she was. The old man said she
had gone out to do an errand and he expected her every

20

moment. Just then the door opened and she appeared
closely followed by an elderly man of remarkably hard
features and forbidding aspect, and so low in stature as
to be quite a dwarf, though his head and face were large
enough for the body of a giant. His black eyes were
restless, sly, and cunning ; his mouth and chin, bristly
with the stubble of a coarse hard beard ; and his com-
plexion was one of that kind which never looks clean or
wholesome. But what added most to the grotesque ex-
pression of his face, was a ghastly smile, which, appearing
to be the mere result of habit and to have no connection
with any mirthful or complacent feeling, constantly re-
vealed the few discolored fangs that were yet scattered
in his mouth, and gave him the aspect of a panting dog.
His dress consisted of a large high-crowned hat, a worn
dark suit, a pair of capacious shoes, and a dirty white
neckerchief sufficiently limp and crumpled to disclose the
greater portion of his wiry throat. Such hair as he had,
was of a grizzled black, cut short and straight upon his
temples, and hanging in a frowzy fringe about his ears.
His hands, which were of a rough,coarse grain, were very
dirty ; his finger nails were crooked, long, and yellow.

The child advanced and put her hand in mine, the
curiosity dealer, who plainly had not expected his" un-
couth visitor, seemed disconcerted and embarrassed.

" Ah ! " said the dwarf (if we may call him so) keenly
surveying me, " and who may this be ? "

" A gentleman who was so good as to bring Nell home
the other night when she lost her way coming from your
house."

"Sir, I am your humble servant, Quilp is my name.
You might remember. It's not a long one — Daniel
Quilp."

The creature appeared quite horrible with his monstrous
head and little body, as he rubbed his hands slowly round,

21

and round, and round again — with something fantastic
even in his manner of performing this slight action — and,
dropping his shaggy brows and cocking his chin in the
air, glanced upward with a stealthy look of exultation
that an imp might have copied and appropriated to him-
self.

" Here," he said, putting his hand into his breast and
sidling up to the old man as he spoke ; " I brought it my-
self for fear of accidents, as, being in gold, it was some-
thing large and heavy for Nell to carry in her bag. She
need be accustomed to such loads betimes though, neigh-
bor, for she will carry weight when you are dead."

" Heaven send she may ! I hope so,'' said the old man
with something like a groan.

" Hope so ! " echoed the dwarf, approaching close to
his ear ; " neighbor, I would I knew in what good invest-
ment all these supplies are sunk. But you are a deep
man, and keep your secret close."

" My secret ! " said the other with a haggard look.
" Yes, you're right — I — I — keep it close — very close."

He said no more, but taking the money turned away
with a slow, uncertain step, and pressed his hand upon his
head like a weary and dejected man. The dwarf watched
him sharply, while he passed into the little sitting room
and locked it in an iron safe above the chimney-piece ;
and after musing for a short space, prepared to take his
leave, observing that unless he made good haste, Mrs.
Quilp would certainly be in fits on his return.

"And so, neighbor," he added, "I'll turn my face home-
wards, leaving my love for Nelly and hoping she may
never lose her way again, though her doing so has pro-
cured me an honor I didn't expect." With that he
bowed and leered at me, and with a keen glance around
which seemed to comprehend every object within his
range of vision, however small or trivial, went his way.

22

I had several times essayed to go myself, but the old
man had always opposed it and entreated me to remain.
As he renewed his entreaties on our being left alone, and
adverted with many thanks to the former occasion of our
being together, I willingly yielded to his persuasions, and
sat down, pretending to examine some curious miniatures
and a few old medals which he placed before me. It
needed no great pressing to induce me to stay, for if my
curiosity had been excited on the occasion of my first
visit, it certainly was not diminished now.

Nell joined us before long, and bringing some needle-
work to the table, sat by the old man's side. It was
pleasant to observe the fresh flowers in the room, the
pet bird with a green bough shading his little cage, the
breath of freshness and youth which seemed to rustle
through the old dull house and hover round the child.
It was curious, but not so pleasant, to turn from the
beauty and grace of the girl, to the stooping figure, care-
worn face, and jaded aspect of the old man. As he grew
weaker and more feeble, what would become of this lonely
little creature ; poor protector as he was, say that he
died — what would her fate be, then ?

The old man almost answered my thoughts, as he laid
his hand on hers, and spoke aloud.

" I'll be of better cheer, Nell," he said ; " there must be
good fortune in store for thee — I do not ask it for myself,
but thee. Such miseries must fall on thy innocent head
without it, that I cannpt believe but that, being tempted,
it will come at last 1 "

She looked cheerfully into his face, but made no an-
swer.

"When I think," said he, " of the many years — many in
thy short life — that thou hast lived alone with me ■ of
thy monotonous existence, knowing no companions of thy
own age nor any childish pleasures ; of the solitude in

23

which thou hast grown to be what thou art, and in which
thou hast lived apart from nearly all thy kind but one old
man ; I sometimes fear I have dealt hardly by thee,
Nell."

" Grandfather ! " cried the child in unfeigned surprise;

" Not in intention — no no," said he. " I have ever
looked forward to the time that should enable thee to
mix among the gayest and prettiest, and take thy station
with the best. But I still look forward, Nell, I still look
forward, and if I should be forced to leave thee, mean-
while, how have I fitted thee for struggles with the world ?
The poor bird yonder is as well qualified to encounter
it, and be turned adrift upon its mercies — Hark ! I hear
Kit outside. Go to him, Nell, go to him."

She rose, and hurrying away, stopped, turned back, and
put her arms about the old man's neck, then left him and
hurried away again — but faster this time, to hide her fall-
ing tears.

"A word in your ear, Sir," said the old man in a
hurried whisper. " I have been rendered uneasy by what
you said the other night, and can only plead that I have
done all for the best — that it is too late to retract, if I
could (though I cannot) — and that I hope to triumph yet.
All is for her sake. I have borne great poverty myself,
and would spare her the sufferings that poverty carries
with it. I would spare her the miseries that brought her
mother, my own dear child, to an early grave. I would
leave her — not with resources which could be easily spent
or squandered away, but with what would place her be-
yond the reach of want forever. You mark me, Sir ?
She shall have no pittance, but a fortune — Hush ! I can
say no more than that, now or at any other time, and she
is here again ! "

The eagerness with which all this was poured into my
ear, the trembling of the hand with which he clasped my

24

arm, the strained and starting eyes he fixed upon me, the
wild vehemence and agitation of his manner, filled me
with amazement. All that I had heard and seen, and a
great part of what he had said himself, led me to suppose
that he was a wealthy man. I could form no comprehen-
sion of his character, unless he were one of those miserable
wretches who, having made gain the sole end and object of
their lives and having succeeded in amassing great riches,
are constantly tortured by the dread of poverty, and be-
set by fears of loss and ruin. Many things he had said,
which I had been at a loss to understand, were quite
reconcilable with the idea thus presented to me, and at
length I concluded that beyond all doubt he was one of
this unhappy race.

The opinion was not the result of hasty consideration,
for which indeed there was no opportunity at that time,
as the child came back directly, and soon occupied herself
in preparations for giving Kit a writing lesson, of which it
seemed he had a couple every week, and one regularly on
that evening, to the great mirth and enjoyment both of
himself and his instructress. To relate how it was a long
time before his modesty could be so far prevailed upon as
to admit of his sitting down in the parlor, in the presence
of an unknown gentleman — how, when he did sit down, he
tucked up his sleeves and squared his elbows and put his
face close to the copy book and squinted horribly at the
lines — how, from the very first moment of having the pen
in his hand, he began to wallow in blots, and to daub him-
self with ink up to the very roots of his hair — how, if he
did by accident form a letter properly, he immediately
smeared it out again with his arm in his preparations to
make another — how, at every fresh mistake, there was a
fresh burst of merriment from the child and a louder and
not less hearty laugh from poor Kit himself — and how
there was all the way through, notwithstanding, a gentle

25

wish on her part to teach, and an anxious desire on his to
learn — to relate all these particulars would no doubt
occupy more space and time than they deserve. It will
be sufficient to say that the lesson was given — that even-
ing passed and night came on — that the old man again
grew restless and impatient — that he quitted the house
secretly at the same hour as before — and that the child
was once more left alone within its gloomy walls.

And now, that I have carried this history so far in my
own character and introduced these personages to the
reader, I shall for the convenience of the narrative detach
myself from its further course, and leave those who have
prominent and necessary parts in it to speak and act for
themselves.

CHAPTER THE THIRD.

Mr. and Mrs. Quilp resided on Tower Hill ; and in
her bower on Tower Hill Mrs, Quilp was left to pine the
absence of her lord, when he quitted her on the business
which he has been already seen to transact.

Mr. Quilp could scarcely be said to be of any particular
trade or calling, though his pursuits were diversified and
his occupations numerous. He collected the rents of
whole colonies of filthy streets and alleys by the waterside,
advanced money to the seamen and petty officers of mer-
chant vessels, had a share in the ventures of divers mates
of East Indiamen, smoked his smuggled cigars under the
very nose of the Custom House, and made appointments
on 'Change with men in glazed hats and round jackets
pretty well every day. On the Surrey side of the river
was a small, rat-infested, dreary yard called " Quilp's
Wharf," in which were a little wooden countinghouse
burrowing all awry in the dust as if it had fallen from the

26

clouds and plowed into the ground ; a few fragments of
rusty anchors ; several large iron rings ; some piles of
rotten wood ; and two or three heaps of old sheet copper,
crumpled, cracked, and battered. On Quilp's Wharf,
Daniel Quilp was a ship breaker, yet to judge from these
appearances he must either have been a ship breaker on a
very small scale, or have broken his ships up very small
indeed. Neither did the place present any extraordinary
aspect of life or activity, as its only human occupant was
an amphibious boy in a canvas suit, whose sole change of
occupation was from sitting on the head of a pile and
throwing stones into the mud when the tide was out, to
standing with his hands in his pockets gazing listlessly on
the motion and on the bustle of the river at high water.
It was flood tide when Daniel Quilp sat himself down
in the wherry to cross to the opposite shore. A fleet of
barges were coming lazily on, some sideways, some head
first, some stern first ; all in a wrong-headed, dogged, ob-
stinate way, bumping up against the larger craft, running
under the bows of steamboats, getting into every kind of
nook and corner where they had no business, and being
crunched on all sides like so many walnut shells ; while
each with its pair of long sweeps struggling and splashing
in the water looked like some lumbering fish in pain. In
some of the vessels at anchor all hands were busily
engaged in coiling ropes, spreading out sails to dry, tak-
ing in or discharging their cargoes ; in others no life was
visible but two or three tarry boys, and perhaps a barking
dog running to and fro upon the deck or scrambling up
to look over the side and bark the louder for the view.
Coming slowly on through the forests of masts was a
great steamship, beating the water in short impatient
strokes with her heavy paddles as though she wanted
room to breathe, and advancing in her huge bulk like a
sea monster among the minnows of the Thames, On

either hand were long black tiers of colliers ; between
them vessels slowly working out of harbor with sails
glistening in the sun, and creaking noise on board, re-
echoed from a hundred quarters. The water and all up-
on it was in active motion, dancing and buoyant and
bubbling up ; while the old gray Tower and piles of build-
ings on the shore, with many a church spire shooting up
between, looked coldly on, and seemed to disdain their
chafing, restless neighbor.

Daniel Quilp, who was not much affected by a bright
morning save in so far as it spared him the trouble of
carrying an umbrella, caused himself to be put ashore
hard by the wharf, and proceeded thither through a nar-
row lane which, partaking of the amphibious characterof
its frequenters, had as much water as mud in its com-
position, and a very liberal supply of both. Arrived at
his destination, the first object that presented itself to his
•view was a pair of very imperfectly shod feet elevated in
the air with the soles upwards, which remarkable appear-
ance was referable to the boy, who being of an eccentric
spirit and having a natural taste for tumbling, was now
standing on his head and contemplating the aspect of the
river under these uncommon circumstances. He was
speedily brought on his heels by the sound of his master's
voice, and as soon as his head was in its right position,
Mr. Quilp, to speak expressively in the absence of a bettel
verb, " punched it " for him.

" Come, you let me alone," said the boy, parrying
Quilp's hand with both his elbows alternately. "Youil
get something you won't like if you don't, and so I tell
you."

" You dog," snarled Quilp, " I'll beat you with an iron
rod, I'll scratch you with a rusty nail, I'll pinch your eyes,
if you talk to me — I will."

With these threats he clenched his hand again, and

28

dexterously diving in between the elbows and catching
the boy's head as it dodged from side to side, gave it three
or four good hard knocks. Having now carried his point
and insisted on it, he left off.

" You won't do it again," said the boy, nodding his
head and drawing back, with the elbows ready in case of
the worst ; " now — "

" Stand still, you dog," said Quilp. " I won't do it
again, because I've done it as often as I want. Here.
Take the key."

"Why don't you hit one of your size?" said the boy
approaching very slowly.

" Where is there one of my size, you dog ? " returned
Quilp. " Take the key, or I'll brain you with it " —
indeed he gave him a smart tap with the handle as he
spoke. "Now, open the countinghouse."

The boy sulkily complied, muttering at first, but desist-
ing when he looked round and saw that Quilp was follow- "
ing him with a steady look. And here it may be remarked,
that between this boy and the dwarf there existed a
strange kind of mutual liking. How born or bred, or how
nourished upon blows and threats on one side, and retorts
and defiances on the other, is not to the purpose. Quilp
would certainly suffer nobody to contradict him but the
boy, and the boy would assuredly not have submitted to
be so knocked about by anybody but Quilp, when he had
the power to run away at any time he chose.

" Now," said Quilp, passing into the wooden counting-
house, "you mind the wharf. Stand upon your head
again, and I'll cut one of your feet off."

The boy made no answer, but directly Quilp had shut
himself in, stood on his head before the door, then walked
on his hands to the back and stood on his head there, and
then to the opposite side and repeated the performance.
There were indeed four sides to the countinghouse, but

29

he avoided that one where the window was, deeming it
probable that Quilp would be looking out of it. This was
prudent, for in point of fact the dwarf, knowing his dis-
position, was lying in wait at a little distance from the
sash armed with a large piece of wood, which, being rough
and jagged" and studded in many parts with broken nails,
might possibly have hurt him.

It was a dirty little- box, this countinghouse, with noth-
ing in it but an old rickety desk and two stools, a hat peg,
an ancient almanac, an inkstand with no ink and the
stump of one pen, and an eight-day clock which hadn't
gone for eighteen years at least, and of which the minute-
hand had been twisted off for a toothpick. Daniel Quilp
pulled his hat over his brows, climbed on to the desk
(which had a flat top), and* stretching his short length
upon it went to sleep with the ease of an old practitioner;
intending, no doubt, to take a long and sound nap.

Sound it might have been, but long it was not, for he
had not been asleep a quarter of an hour when the boy
opened the door and thrust in his head, which was like a
bundle of badly-picked oakum. Quilp was a light sleeper
and started up directly.

" Here's somebody for you," said the boy.

" Who ? "

" I don't know."

" Ask ! " said Quilp, seizing the trifle of wood before
mentioned and throwing it at him with such dexterity
that it was well the boy disappeared before it reached the
spot on which he had stood. " Ask, you dog.''

Not caring to venture within range of such missiles
again, the boy discretely sent in his stead the first cause
of the interruption, who now presented herself at the
door.

"What, Nelly ! " cried Quilp.

"Yes,"^said the child, hesitating whether to enter or

3°

retreat, for the dwarf just roused, with his disheveled
hair hanging all about him and a yellow handkerchief
over his head, was something fearful to behold ; " it's only
me, Sir."

" Come in," said Quilp, without getting off the desk.
" Come in. Stay. Just look out into the yard, and see
whether there's a boy standing on his head."

" No, Sir," replied Nell. " He's on his feet."

" You're sure he is ? " said Quilp. " Well. Now, come
in and shut the door. What's your message, Nelly ? "

The child handed him a letter ; Mr. Quilp, without
changing his position further than to turn over a little
more on his side and rest his chin on his hand, proceeded
to make himself acquainted with its contents.

CHAPTER THE FOURTH.

Little Nell stood timidly by, with her eyes raised to
the countenance of Mr. Quilp as he read the letter, plainly
showing by her looks that while she entertained some fear
and distrust of the little man, she was much inclined to
laugh at his uncouth appearance and grotesque attitude.
And yet there was visible on the part of the child a pain-
ful anxiety for his reply, and a consciousness of his
power to render it disagreeable or distressing, which was
strongly at variance with this impulse and restrained it
more effectually than she could possibly have done by
any efforts of her own.

That Mr. Quilp was himself perplexed, and that in no
small degree, by the contents of the letter, was sufficiently
obvious. Before he had got through the first two or three
lines he began to open his eyes very wide and to frown
most horribly, the next two or three caused him to scratch
his head in an uncommonly vicious manner, and when he

3i

came to the conclusion he gave a long dismal whistle in-
dicative of surprise and dismay. After folding and laying
it down beside him, he bit the nails of all his ten fingers
with extreme voracity ; and taking it up sharply, read it
again. The second perusal was to all appearance as un-
satisfactory as the first, and plunged him into a profound
reverie from which he awakened to another assault upon
his nails and a long stare at the child, who with her eyes
turned towards the ground awaited his further pleasure.

"Halloa here I" he said at length, in a voice, and with
a suddenness, which made the child start as though a gun
had been fired off at her ear. " Nelly ! "

" Yes, Sir."

" Do you know what's inside this letter, Nell ? "

" No, Sir ! "

" Are you sure, quite sure, quite certain, upon your
soul ? "

" Quite sure, Sir."

" Do you wish you may die if you do know, hey ? " said
the dwarf.

" Indeed I don't know," returned the child.

"Well ! " muttered Quilp as he marked her earnest look.
" I believe you. Humph ! Gone already ? Gone in four-
and-twenty hours ! What has he done with it, that's the
mystery ! "

This reflection set him scratching his head and biting
his nails once more. While he was thus employed his
features gradually relaxed into what was with him a cheer-
ful smile, but which in any other man would have been a
ghastly grin of pain, and when the child looked up again
she found that he was regarding her -with extraordinary
favor and complacency.

" You look very pretty to-day, Nelly, charmingly pretty.
Are you tired, Nelly ? "

" No, Sir. I'm in a hurry to get back, for he will be
anxious while I am away."

32

" There's no hurry, little Nell, no hurry at all," said Quilp.
" You shall come with me to Tower Hill, and see Mrs.
Quilp that is, directly, she's very fond of you, Nell, though
not so fond as I am. You shall come home with me."

" I must go back indeed," said the child. " He told me
to return directly I had the answer."

" But you haven't it, Nelly," retorted the dwarf, " and
won't have it, and can't have it, until I have been home,
so you see that to do your errand, you must go with me.
Reach me yonder hat, my dear, and we'll go directly."
With that, Mr. Quilp suffered himself to roll gradually off
the desk until his short legs touched the ground, when he
got upon them and led the way from the countinghouse
to the wharf outside, when the first objects that presented
themselves were the boy who had stood on his head and
another young gentleman of about his own stature, rolling
in the mud together, locked in a tight embrace, and cuff-
ing each other with mutual heartiness.

" It's Kit ! " cried Nelly, clasping her hands, " poor Kit
who came with me ! Oh pray stop them, Mr. Quilp ! "

" I'll stop 'em," cried Quilp, diving into the little count-
inghouse and returning with a thick stick, " I'll stop 'em.
Now, my boys, fight away. I'll fight you both. I'll take
both of you, both together, both together ! "

With which defiances the dwarf flourished his cudgel,
and dancing round the combatants and treading upon
them and skipping over them, in a kind of frenzy, laid
about him, now on one and now on the other, in a most
desperate manner, always aiming at their heads and deal-
ing such blows as none but the veriest little savage would
have inflicted. This being warmer work than they had
calculated upon, speedily cooled the courage of the bel-
ligerents, who scrambled to their feet and called for
quarter.

" Come, you drop that stick or it'll be worse for you,"

33

said his boy, dodging round him and watching an oppor-
tunity to rush in ; " you drop that stick."

" Come a little nearer, and I'll drop it on your skull,
you dog," said Quilp with gleaming eyes ; " a little nearer
— nearer yet.""

But the boy declined the invitation until his master was
apparently a little off his guard, when he darted in and
seizing the weapon tried to wrest it from his grasp. Quilp,
who was as strong as a lion, easily kept his hold until the
boy was tugging at it with his utmost power, when he
suddenly let it go and sent him reeling backwards, so that
he fell violently upon his head. The success of this
manoeuvre tickled Mr. Quilp beyond description, and he
laughed and stamped upon the ground as at a most irre-
sistible jest.

" Never mind," said the boy, nodding his head and rub-
bing it at the same time ; " you see if ever I offer to strike
anybody again because they say you're a uglier dwarf than
can be seen anywheres for a penny, that's all."

" Do you mean to say I'm not, you dog ? " returned
Quilp.

" No ! " retorted the boy.

" Then what do you fight on my wharf for, you villain ? "
said Quilp.

" Because he said so," replied the boy, pointing to Kit,
" not because you an't."

" Then why did he say," bawled Kit, " that Miss Nelly
was ugly, and that she and my master was obliged to do
whatever his master liked ? Why did he say that ? "

"He said what he did because he's a fool, and you said
what you did because you're very wise and clever — almost
too clever to live, unless you're very careful of yo*urself,
Kit," said Quilp, with great suavity in his manner, but still
more of quiet malice about his eyes and mouth. " Here's
sixpence for you, Kit. Always speak the truth. At all

Little mil.—z.

34

times, Kit, speak the truth. Lock the countinghouse,
you dog, and bring me the key."

The other boy, to whom this order was addressed, did
as he was told, and was rewarded for his partisanship in
behalf of his master, by a dexterous rap on the nose with
the key, which brought the water into his eyes. Then
Mr. Quilp departed with the child and Kit in a boat, and
the boy revenged himself by dancing on his head at inter-
vals on the extreme verge of the wharf, during the whole
time they crossed the river.

There was only Mrs. Quilp at home, and she, little ex-
pecting the return of her lord, was just composing herself
for a refreshing slumber when the sound of his footsteps
roused her. She had barely time to seem to be occupied
in some needlework, when he entered, accompanied by
the child ; having left Kit down stairs.

" Here's Nelly Trent, dear Mrs. Quilp," said her hus-
band. " She'll sit with you, my soul, while I write a
letter."

Mrs. Quilp looked tremblingly in her spouse's face to
know what this unusual courtesy might portend, and
obedient to the summons she saw in his gesture, followed
him into the next room.

" Mind what I say to you," whispered Quilp. " See if
you can get out of her anything about her grandfather, or
what they do, or how they live, or what he tells her. I've
my reasons for knowing, if f can. You women talk more
freely to one another than you do to us, and you have a
soft, mild way with you that'll win upon her. Do you
hear?"

"Yes, Quilp."

" Go, then. What's the matter now ? "

"Dear Quilp," faltered his wife, "I love the child— if
you could do without making me deceive her "

" Do you hear me," whispered Quilp, nipping and pinch-

35

ing her arm; "worm yourself into her secrets; I know
you can. I'm listening, recollect. If you're not sharp
enough I'll creak the door, and woe betide you if I have
to creak it much. Go ! "

Mrs. Quilp departed according to order, and her amia-
ble husband, ensconcing himself behind the partly opened
door, and applying his ear close to it, began to listen with
a face of great craftiness and attention.

Poor Mrs. Quilp was thinking, however, in what manner
to begin or what kind of inquiries she could make ; and it
was not until the door, creaking in a very urgent manner,
warned her to proceed without further consideration, that
the sound of her voice was heard.

" How very often you have come backwards and for-
wards lately to Mr. Quilp, my dear."

" I have said so to grandfather, a hundred times," re-
turned Nell innocently.

" And what has he said to that ? "

" Only sighed, and dropped his head, and seemed so
sad and wretched that if you could have seen him I am
sure you must have cried ; you could not have helped it
more than I, I know. How that door creaks ! "

" It often does," returned Mrs. Quilp, with an uneasy
glance towards it. " But your grandfather — he used not
to be so wretched ? ''

" Oh no ! " said the child eagerly, " so different ! we
were once so happy and he so cheerful and contented !
You cannot think what a sad change has fallen on us
since."

" I am very, very sorry, to hear you speak like this, my
dear ! " said Mrs. Quilp. And she spoke the truth.

" Thank you," returned the child, kissing her cheek,
" you are always kind to me, and it is a pleasure to talk
to you. I can speak to no one else about him, -but poor
Kit. I am very happy still, I ought to feel happier per-

36

haps than I do, but you cannot think how it grieves me
sometimes to see him alter so."

" He'll alter again, Nelly," said Mrs. Quilp, " and be
what he was before."

" Oh if God would only let that come about ! " said the
child with streaming eyes ; " but it is a long time now,
since he first began to — I thought I saw that door mov-
ing ! "

" It's the wind," said Mrs. Quilp faintly. " Began
to—?"

" To be so thoughtful and dejected, and to forget our
old way of spending the time in the long evenings," said
the child. " I used to read to him by the fireside, and he
sat listening, and when I stopped and we began to talk,
he told me about my mother, and how she once looked
and spoke just like me when she was a little child. Then,
he used to take me on his knee, and try to make me
understand that she was not lying in her grave, but had
flown to a beautiful country beyond the sky, where noth-
ing died or ever grew old — we were very happy once ! "

" Nelly, Nelly ! " — said the poor woman, " I can't bear
to see one as young as you, so sorrowful. Pray don't
cry."

" I do so very seldom," said Nell, " but I have kept
this to myself a long time, and I am not quite well, I think,
for the tears come into my eyes and I cannot keep them
back. I don't mind telling you my grief, for I know you
will not tell it to any one again."

Mrs. Quilp turned away her head and made no answer.

" Then," said the child, " we often walked in the fields
and among the green trees, and when we came home at
night, we liked it better for being tired, and said what a
happy place it was. And if it was dark and rather dull,
we used to say, what did it matter to us, for it only made
us remember our last walk with greater pleasure, and look

37

forward to our next one. But now we never have these
walks, and though it is the same house it is darker and
much more gloomy than it used to be, indeed ! "

She paused here, but though the door creaked more
than once, Mrs. Quilp said nothing.

" Mind you don't suppose/' said the child earnestly,
" that grandfather is less kind to me than he was. I think
he loves me better every day, and is kinder and more
affectionate than he was the day before. You do not
know how fond he is of me ! "

" I am sure he loves you dearly/' said Mrs. Quilp.

" Indeed, indeed he does ! " cried Nell, " as dearly as
I love him. But I have not told you the greatest change
of all, and this you must never breathe to any one. He
has no sleep or rest, but that which he takes by day in his
easy chair ; for every night and nearly all night long he is
away from home."

" Nelly ! "

" Hush ! " said the child, laying her finger on her lip
and looking round. " When he comes home in the morn-
ing, which is generally just before day, I let him in.
Last night he was very late, and it was quite light. I saw
that his face was deadly pale, that his eyes were blood-
shot, and that his legs trembled as he walked. When I
had gone to bed again, I heard him groan. I got up and
ran back to him, and heard him say, before he knew that I
was there, that he could not bear his life much longer, and
if it was not for the child, would wish to die. What shall
I do! Oh! what shall I do !"

The fountains of her heart were opened ; the child,
overpowered by the weight of her sorrows and anxieties,
by the first confidence she had ever shown, and the sym-
pathy with which her little tale had been received, hid her
face in the arms of her helpless friend, and burst into a
passion of tears.

38

In a few moments Mr. Quilp returned, and expressed
the utmost surprise to find her in this condition, which he
did very naturally and with admirable effect, for that kind
of acting had been rendered familiar to him by long
practice, and he was quite at home in it.

"She's tired you see, Mrs. Quilp," said the dwarf,
squinting in a hideous manner to imply that his wife was
to follow his lead. " It's a long way from her home to the
wharf, and then she was alarmed to see a couple of young
scoundrels fighting, and was timorous on the water be-
sides. All this together has been too much for her.
Poor Nell ! "

Mr. Quilp unintentionally adopted the very best means
he could have devised for the recovery of his young visitor,
by patting .her on the head. Such an application from
any other hand might not have produced a remarkable
effect, but the child shrank so quickly from his touch and
felt such an instinctive desire to get out of his reach, that
she rose directly and declared herself ready to return.

" But you'd better wait, and dine with Mrs. Quilp and
me," said the dwarf.

" I have been away too long, Sir, already," returned
Nell, drying her eyes.

" Well," said Mr. Quilp, " if you will go, you will, Nelly.
Here's the note. It's only to say that I shall see him to-
morrow or maybe next day, and that I couldn't do that
little business for him this morning. Good-bye, Nelly.
Here, you Sir ; take care of her, d'ye hear ? "

Kit, who appeared at the summons, deigned to make
no reply to so needless an injunction, and after staring at
Quilp in a threatening manner as if he doubted whether
he might not have been the cause of Nelly shedding tears,
and felt more than half-disposed to revenge the fact upon
him on the mere suspicion, turned about and followed his
young mistress, who had by this time taken her leave of
Mrs. Quilp and departed.

39

" You're a keen questioner, an't you, Mrs. Quilp ? "
said the dwarf, turning upon her as soon as they were left
alone.

" What more could I do ? " returned his wife mildly.

" What more could you do ! " sneered Quilp, "Couldn't
you have done something less ? Couldn't you have done
what you had to do, without appearing in your favorite
part of the crocodile, you minx ? "

" I am very sorry for the child, Quilp," said his wife.
" Surely I've done enough. I've led her on to tell her
secret when she supposed we were alone ; and you were
by, God forgive me."

" You led her on ! You did a great deal truly ! " said
Quilp. " What did I tell you about making me creak the
door ? It's lucky for you that from what she let fall, I've
got the clue I want, for if I hadn't, I'd have visited the
failure upon you, I can tell you."

Mrs. Quilp, being fully persuaded of this, made no re-
ply. Her husband added with some exultation,

" But you may thank your fortunate stars — the same
stars that made you, Mrs. Quilp — you may thank them that
I'm upon the old gentleman's track, and have got a new
light. So let me hear no more about this matter now or
at any other time, and don't get anything too nice for din-
ner, for I shan't be home to it."

So saying, Mr. Quilp put his hat on and took himself
off, and Mrs. Quilp, who was afflicted beyond measure by
the recollection of the part she had just acted, shut her-
self up in her chamber, and smothering her head in the
bedclothes bemoaned her fault more bitterly than many
less tender-hearted persons would have mourned a much
greater offense ; for, in the majority of cases, conscience
is an elastic and very flexible article, which will bear a
deal of stretching and adapt itself to a great variety of
circumstances. Some people by prudent management

40

and leaving it off piece by piece like a flannel^ waistcoat in
warm weather, even contrive, in time, to dispense with it
altogether ; but there be others who can assume the gar-
ment and throw it off at pleasure ; and this, being the
greatest and most convenient improvement, is the one
most in vogue.

CHAPTER THE FIFTH.

The child, in her confidence with Mrs. Quilp, had but
feebly described the sadness and sorrow of her thoughts,
or the heaviness of the cloud which overhung her home,
and cast dark shadows on its hearth. Besides that it was
very difficult to impart to any person not intimately ac-
quainted with the life she led, an adequate sense of its
gloom and loneliness, a constant fear of in some way com-
mitting or injuring the old man to whom she was so ten-
derly attached, had restrained her even in the midst of her
heart's overflowing, and made her timid of allusion to the
main cause of her anxiety and distress.

For, it was not the monotonous days unchequered by
variety and uncheered by pleasant companionship, it was
not the dark dreary evenings or the long solitary nights,
it was not the absence of every slight and easy pleasure
for which young hearts beat high, or the knowing nothing
of childhood but its weakness and its easily wounded spirit,
that had wrung such tears from Nell. To see the old man
struck down beneath the pressure of some hidden grief,
to mark his wavering and unsettled state, to be agitated
at times with a dreadful fear that his mind was wander-
ing, and to trace in his words and looks the dawning of
despondent madness ; to watch and wait and listen for
confirmation of these things day after day, and to feel and
know that, come what might, they were alone in the

4!

world with no one to help or advise or care about them— >
these were causes of depression and anxiety that might
have sat heavily on an older breast with many influences
at work to cheer and gladden it, but how heavily on the
mind of a young child to whom they were ever present,
and who was constantly surrounded by all that could keep
such thoughts in restless action !

And yet, to the old man's vision, Nell was still the same.
When he could for a moment disengage his mind from the
phantom that haunted and brooded on it always, there
was his young companion with the same smile for him, the
same earnest words, the same merry laugh, the same love
and care that sinking deep into his soul seemed to have
been present to him through his whole life. And so he
went on, content to read the book of her heart from the
page first presented to him, little dreaming of the story
that lay hidden in its other leaves, and murmuring within
himself that at least the child was happy.

She had been once. She had gone singing through the
dim rooms, and moving with gay and lightsome step
among their dusty treasures, making them older by her
young life, and sterner and more grim by her gay and
cheerful presence. But now the chambers were cold and
gloomy, and when she left her own little room to while
away the tedious hours, and sat in one of them, she was
still and motionless as their inanimate occupants, and had
no heart" to startle the echoes — hoarse from their long
silence — with her voice.

One night, the third after Nelly's interview with Mrs.
Quilp, the old man, who had been weak and ill all day,
said he should not leave home. The child's eyes sparkled
at the intelligence, but her joy subsided when they re-
verted to his worn and sickly face.

" Two days," he said, " two whole, clear days have
passed, and there is no reply. What did he tell thee,
Nell?"

42

" Exactly what I told you, dear grandfather, indeed."

" True," said the old man, faintly. " Yes. But tell me
again, Nell. My head fails me. What was it that he told
thee? Nothing more than that he would see me to-
morrow or next day ? That was in the„note."

" Nothing more," said the child. " Shall I go to him
again to-morrow, dear grandfather ? Very early ? I will
be there and back, before breakfast."

The old man shook his head, and sighing mournfully,
drew her towards him.

" 'Twould be of no use, my dear, no earthly use. But
if he deserts me, Nell, at this moment — if he deserts me
now, when I should, with his assistance, be recompensed
for all the time and money I have lost, and all the agony
of mind I have undergone, which makes me what you see,
I am ruined, and — worse, far worse than that — have
ruined thee, for whom I ventured all. If we are beg-
gars — ! "

" What if we are ? " said the child boldly. " Let us be
beggars, and be happy."

" Beggars — and. happy ! " said the old man. " Poor
child!"

" Dear grandfather," cried the girl with an energy
which shone in her flushed face, trembling voice, and im-
passioned gesture, " I am not a child in that I think, but
even if I am, oh hear me pray that we may beg, or work
in open roads or fields, to earn a scanty living, rather
than live as we do now."

" Nelly !" said the old man.

" Yes, yes, rather than live as we do now," the child re-
peated, more earnestly than before. " If you are sorrow-
ful, let me know why and be sorrowful too ; if you waste
away and are paler and weaker every day, let me be your
nurse and try to comfort you. If you are poor, let us be
poor together, but let me be with you, do let me be with

43

you, do not let me see such change and not know why, or
I shall break my heart and die. Dear grandfather, let us
leave this sad place to-morrow, and beg our way from
door to door."

The old man covered his face with his hands, and hid
it in the pillow of the couch on which he lay.

" Let us be beggars," said the child passing an arm
round his neck, " I have no fear but we shall have enough,
I am sure we shall. Let us walk through country places,
and sleep in fields and under trees, and never think of
money again, or anything that can make you sad, but
rest at nights, and have the sun and wind upon our faces
in the day, and thank God together. Let us never set
foot in dark rooms or melancholy houses any more, but
wander up and down wherever we like to go, and when
you are tired, you shall stop to rest in the pleasantest
place that we can find, and I will go and beg for both."

The child's voice was lost in sobs as she dropped upon
the old man's neck ; nor did she weep alone.

These were not words for other ears, nor was it a scene
for other eyes. And yet other ears and eyes were there
and greedily taking in all that passed, and moreover they '
were the ears and eyes of no less a person than Mr.
Daniel Quilp, who, having entered unseen when the child
first placed herself at the old man's side, refrained — actu-
ated, no doubt, by motives of the purest delicacy — from
interrupting the conversation, and stood looking on with
his accustomed grin. Standing, however, being a tire-
some attitude to a gentleman already fatigued with walk-
ing, and the dwarf being one of that kind of persons who
usually make themselves at home, he soon cast his eyes
upon a chalir into which he skipped with uncommon agility,
and perching himself on the back with his feet upon the
seat, was thus enabled to look on and listen with greater
Comfort to himself, besides gratifying at the same time

44

that taste for doing something fantastic and monkey-like,
which on all occasions had strong possession of him.
Here, then, he sat, one leg cocked carelessly over the
other, his chin resting on the palm of his hand, his head
turned a little on one side, and his ugly features twisted
into a complacent grimace. And in this position the old
man, happening in course of time to look that way, at
length chanced to see him, to his unbounded astonishment.

The child uttered a suppressed shriek on beholding
this agreeable figure ; in their first surprise both she and
the old man, not knowing what to say, and half doubting
its reality, looked shrinkingly at it. Not at all discon-
certed by this reception, Daniel Quilp preserved the
same attitude, merely nodding twice or thrice with great
condescension. At length the old man pronounced his
name, and inquired how he came there.

"Through the door," said Quilp pointing over his
shoulder with his thumb. " I'm not quite small enough to
get through keyholes. I wish I was. I want to have
some talk with you, particularly, and in private — with no-
body present, neighbor. Good-bye, little Nelly."

Nell looked at the old man, who nodded to her to retire,
and kissed her cheek.

" Ah ! " said the dwarf, smacking his lips, " what a nice
kiss that was — just upon the rosy part. What a capital
kiss ! "

Nell was none the slower in going away, for this remark.
Quilp looked after her with an admiring leer, and when
she had closed the door, fell to complimenting the old
man upon her charms.

" Such a fresh, blooming, modest little bud, neighbor,"
said Quilp nursing his short leg, and making his eyes
twinkle very much ; " such a chubby, rosy, cosey, little
Nell ! "

The old man answered by a forced smile, and was

45

plainly struggling with a feeling of the keenest and most
exquisite impatience. It was not lost upon Quilp, who
delighted in torturing him, or indeed anybody else when
he could.

"She's so," said Quilp, speaking very slowly, and
feigning to be quite absorbed in the subject, "so small,
so compact, so beautifully modeled, so fair, with such
blue veins and such a transparent skin, and such little
feet, and such winning ways — but bless me, you're ner-
vous ! Why, neighbor, what's the matter ? I swear to
you," continued the dwarf dismounting from the chair and
sitting down in it, with a careful slowness of gesture very
different from the rapidity with which he had sprung up
unheard, " I swear to you that I had no idea old blo6d
ran so fast or kept so warm. I thought it was sluggish
in its course, and cool, quite cool. I am pretty sure it
ought to be. Yours must be out of order, neighbor."

" I believe it is," groaned the old man, clasping his head
with both hands. " There's burning fever here, and some-
thing now and then to which I fear to give a name."

The dwarf said never a word, but watched his com-
panion as he paced restlessly up and down the room, and
presently returned to his seat. Here he remained, with
his head bowed upon his breast for some time, and then
suddenly raising it, said,

" Once, and once for all, have you brought me any
money ?"

" No ! " returned Quilp.

" Then," said the old man, clenching his hands des-
perately, and looking upward, " the child and I are lost ! "

" Neighbor," said Quilp, glancing sternly at him, and
beating his hand twice or thrice upon the table to attract
his wandering attention, " let me be plain with you, and
play a fairer game than when you held all the cards, and I
saw but the backs and nothing more. You have no secret
from me now."

46

The old man looked up, trembling.

" You are surprised," said Quilp. " Well, perhaps that's
natural. You have no secret from me now, I say ; no, not
one. For now I know that all those sums of money, that
all those loans, advances, and supplies that you have had
from me, have found their way to — shall I say the word?"

" Ay ! " replied the old man, " say it, if you will."

" To the gaming-table," rejoined Quilp, " your nightly
haunt. This was the precious scheme to make your for-
tune, was it ; this was the secret certain source of wealth in
which I was to have sunk my money (if I had been the
fool you took me for) ; this was your inexhaustible mine
of gold, your El Dorado, eh?"

" Yes," cried the old man, turning upon him with gleam-
ing eyes, " it was. It is. It will be till I die."

" That I should have been blinded," said Quilp looking
contemptuously at him, " by a mere shallow gambler ! "

" I am no gambler," cried the old man fiercely. " I call
heaven to witness that I never played for gain of mine, or
love of play ; that at every piece I staked, I whispered to
myself that orphan's name and called on Heaven to bless
the venture, which it never did. Whom did it prosper ?
Who were those with whom I played ? Men who lived by
plunder, profligacy, and riot, squandering their gold in do-
ing ill and propagating vice and evil. My winnings would
have been from them, my winnings would have been be-
stowed to the last farthing on a young sinless child whose
life they would have sweetened and made happy. What
would they have contracted ? The means of corruption,
wretchedness, and misery. Who would not have hoped in
such a cause — tell me that ; now who would not have
hoped as I did ? "

''When did you first begin this mad career?" asked
Quilp, his taunting inclination subdued for a moment by
the old man's grief and wildness.

47

" When did I first begin ? " he rejoined, passing his
hand across his brow. " When was it, that I first began ?
When should it be, but when I began to think how little
I had saved, how long a time it took to save at all, how
short a time I might have at my age to live, and how she
would be left to the rough mercies of the world, with
barely enough to keep her from the sorrows that wait on
poverty ; then it was that I began to think about it. I
thought of it a long time, and had it in my sleep for
months. Then I began. I found no pleasure in it, I ex-
pected none. What has it ever brought to me but anxious
days and sleepless nights, but loss of health and peace of
mind, and gain of feebleness and sorrow ! "

" You lost what money you had laid by, first, and then
came to me. While I thought you were making your
fortune (as you said you were) you were making yourself
a beggar, eh ? Dear me ! And so it comes to pass that I
hold every security you could scrape together, and a bill
of sale upon the — upon the stock and property," said
Quilp standing up and looking about him, as if to assure
himself that none of it had been taken away. " But did
you never win ?"

" Never ! " groaned the old man. " Never won back
my loss ! "

" I thought," sneered the dwarf, " that if a man played
long enough he was sure to win at last, or at the worst
not to come off a loser."

" And so he is," cried the old man, suddenly rousing
himself from his state of despondency, and lashed into the
most violent excitement, " so he is ; I have felt that from
the first, I have always known it, I've seen it, I never felt
it half so strongly as I feel it now. Quilp, I have dreamed
three nights of winning the same large sum, I never could
dream that dream before, though I have often tried. Do
not desert me now I have this chance. I have no re-

4 8

source but you, give me some help, let me try this one
last hope."

The dwarf shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.

" See, Quilp, good tender-hearted Quilp," said the old
man, drawing some scraps of paper from his pocket with
a trembling hand, and clasping the dwarf's arm, " only
see here. Look at these figures, the result of long calcula-
tion, and painful and hard experience. I must win. I only
want a little help once more, a few pounds, but two score
pounds, dear Quilp."

' " The last advance was seventy," said the dwarf ; " and
it went in one night."

" I know it did," answered the old man, " but that was
the very worst fortune of all, and the time had not come
then. Quilp, consider, consider," the old man cried, trem-
bling so much the while that the papers in his hand flut-
tered as if they were shaken by the wind, " that orphan
child. If I were alone, I could die with gladness — perhaps
even anticipate that doom which is dealt out so unequally,
coming as it does on the proud and happy in their
strength, and shunning the needy and afflicted and all who
court it in their despair — but what I have done has been
for her. Help me for her sake I implore you — not for mine,
for hers ! "

" I'm sorry I've got an appointment in the city," said
Quilp, looking at his watch with perfect self-possession,
" or I should have been very glad to have spent half an
hour with you while you composed yourself — very glad."

" Nay, Quilp, good Quilp," gasped the old man, catching
at his skirts — " you and I have talked together more than
once of her poor mother's story. The fear of her com-
ing to poverty has perhaps been bred in me by that. Do
not be hard upon me', but take that into account. You
are a great gainer by me. Oh spare me the money for this
one last hope ! "

49

" I couldn't do it really," said Quilp with unusual polite-
ness, " though I tell you what — and this is a circumstance
worth bearing in mind as showing how the sharpest among
us may be taken in sometimes — I was so deceived by the
penurous way in which you lived, alone with Nelly — ,;

"All done to save money for tempting fortune, and
make her triumph greater," cried the old man.

" Yes, yes, I understand that now," said Quilp ; " but I
was going to say, I was so deceived by that, your miserly
way, the reputation you had among those who knew you of
being rich, and your repeated assurances that you would
make of my advances treble and quadruple the interest you
paid me, that I'd have advanced you even now what you
want, on your simple note of hand, though I had been led
to suspect something wrong, if I hadn't unexpectedly be-
come acquainted with your secret way of life."

" Who is it," retorted the old man desperately, " that
notwithstanding all my caution, told you that ? Come.
Let me know the name — the person."

The crafty dwarf, bethinking himself that his giving up
the child would lead to the disclosure of the artifice he
had employed, which, as nothing was to be gained by it,
it was as well to conceal, stopped short in his answer and
said, " Now, who do you think ?"

" It was Kit, it must have been the boy ; he played the
spy and you tampered with him ? " said the old man.

:" How came you to think of him ? " said the dwarf in a
tone of great commiseration. " Yes, it was Kit. Poor
Kit ! "

So saying, he nodded in a friendly manner, and took
his leave, stopping when he had passed the outer door a
little distance, and grinning with extraordinary delight.

" Poor Kit ! " muttered Quilp. " I think it was Kit who
said I was an uglier dwarf than could be seen anywhere
for a penny, wasn't it. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Poor Kit ! "

Little mil.— A.

So

And with that he went his way, still chuckling as he
went.

CHAPTER THE SIXTH.

Daniel Quilp neither entered nor left the old man's
house, unobserved. In the shadow of an archway nearly
opposite, leading to one of the many passages which di-
verged from the main street, there lingered one who, hav-
ing taken up his position when the twilight first came on,
still maintained it with undiminished patience, and leaning
against the wall with the manner of one who had a long time
to wait, and being well used to it was quite resigned,
scarcely changed his attitude for the hour together.

This patient lounger attracted little attention from any
of those who passed, and bestowed as little upon them. His
eyes were constantly directed towards one object, the win-
dow at which the child was accustomed to sit. If he with-
drew them for a moment, it was only to glance at a clock
in some neighboring shop, and then to strain his sight once
more in the old quarter with increased earnestness and at-
tention.

It has been remarked that this personage evinced no
weariness in his place of concealment, nor did he, long as
his waiting was. But as the time went on, he manifested
some anxiety and surprise, glancing at the clock more fre-
quently and at the window less hopefully than before. At
length the clock was hidden from, his sight by some envi-
ous shutters, then the church steeples proclaimed it eleven
at night, then the quarter past, and then the conviction
seemed to obtrude itself upon his mind that it was of no
use tarrying there any longer.

That the conviction was an unwelcome one, and that he
was by no means willing to yield to it, was apparent from

Si

his reluctance to quit the spot ; from the tardy steps with
which he often left it, still looking over his shoulder at
the same window ; and from the precipitation with which
he as often returned, when a fancied noise or the chang-
ing and imperfect light induced him to suppose it had
been softly raised. At length he gave the matter up as
hopeless for that night, and suddenly breaking into a run
as though to force himself away, scampered off at his
utmost speed, nor once ventured to look behind him lest
he should be tempted back again.

Without relaxing his pace or stopping, to take breath,
this mysterious individual dashed on through a great many
alleys and narrow ways until he at length arrived in a
square paved court, when he subsided into a walk, and
making for a small house from the window of which a
light was shining, lifted the latch of the door and passed
in.

" Bless us ! " cried a woman turning sharply round,
" who's that ? Oh ! It's you, Kit ! "

" Yes, mother, it's me."

" Why, how tired you look, my dear ! "

" Old master an't gone out to-night," said Kit ; " and so
she hasn't been at the window at all." With which words,
he sat down by the fire and looked very mournful and dis-
contented.

The room in which Kit sat himself down in this condi- '
tion was an extremely poor and homely place, but with
that air of comfort about it, nevertheless, which — or the
spot must be a wretched one indeed — cleanliness and
order can always impart in some degree. Late as the
Dutch clock showed it to be, the poor woman was still
hard at work at an ironing-table ; a young child lay sleep-
ing in a cradle near the fire ; and another, a sturdy boy of
two or three years old, very wide awake, with a very tight
nightcap on his head, and a nightgown very much too

52

small for him on his body, was sitting bolt upright in a
clothesbasket, staring over the rim with his great round
eyes, and looking as if he had thoroughly made up his
mind never to go to sleep any more ; which, as he had
already declined to take his natural rest and had been
brought out of bed in consequence, opened a cheerful
• prospect for his relations and friends. It was rather a
queer-looking family ; Kit, his mother, and the children,
being all strongly alike.

Kit was disposed to be out of temper, as the best of us
are too often — but he looked at the youngest child who
was sleeping soundly, and from him to his other brother
in the clothesbasket, and from him to their mother, who
had been at work without complaint since morning, and
thought it would be a better and kinder thing to be good-
humored. So he rocked the cradle with his foot, made
a face at the rebel in the clothesbasket, which put him in
high good-humor directly, and stoutly determined to be
talkative and make himself agreeable.

" Ah, mother ! " said Kit, taking out his clasp knife and
falling upon a great piece of bread and meat which she
had had ready for him, hours before, " what a one you are !
There an't many such as you, / know."

" I hope there are many a great deal better, Kit," said
Mrs. Nubbles ; " and that there are, or ought to be, accord-
in' to what the parson at chapel says."

" Much he knows about it," returned Kit contemptuously.
"Wait till he's a widder and works like you do, and gets
as little, and does as much, and keeps his spirits up the
same, and then I'll ask him what's o'clock and trust him
for being right to half a second."

" Did you tell me just now that your master hadn't gone
out to-night ? " inquired Mrs. Nubbles.

"Yes," said Kit, "worse luck."

"You should say better luck, I think," returned his
mother, " because Miss Nelly won't have been left alone."

S3

" Ah ! " said Kit, " I forgot that. I said worse luck,
because I've been watching ever since eight o'clock, and
seen nothing of her."

" I wonder what she'd say," cried his mother, stopping
in her work and looking round, " if she knew that every
night, when she — poor thing — is sitting alone at that win-
dow, you are watching in the open street for fear any harm
should come to her, and that you never leave the place or
come home to your bed, though you're ever so tired, till
such time as you think she's safe in hers."

" Never mind what she'd say," replied Kit, with some-
thing like a blush on his uncouth face ; " she'll never
know nothing, and consequently, she'll never say noth-
ing.

Mrs. Nubbles ironed away in silence for a minute or
two, and coming to the fireplace for another iron, glanced
stealthily at Kit while she rubbed it on aboard and dusted
it with a duster, but said nothing until she had returned
to her table again, when holding the iron at an alarmingly
short distance from her cheek, to test its temperature, and
looking round with a smile, she observed :

" I know what some people would say, Kit — "

" Nonsense," interposed Kit with a perfect apprehen-
sion of what was to follow.

" No, but they would indeed. Some people would say
that you'd fallen in love with her, I know they would."

To this, Kit only replied by bashfully bidding his mother
" get out," and forming sundry strange figures with his
legs and arms, accompanied by sympathetic contortions
of his face. Not deriving from these means the relief
which he sought, he bit off an immense mouthful from the
bread and meat, by which artificial aids he choked him-
self and effected a diversion of the subject.

" Speaking seriously though, Kit," said his mother tak-
ing up the theme afresh, after a time, " for of course I

54

was only in joke just now, it's very good and thoughtful,
and like you, to do this, and never let anybody know it,
though some day I hope she may come to know it, for Fm
sure she^ would be very grateful to you, and feel it very
much. It's a cruel thing to keep the dear child shut up
there. . I don't wonder that the old gentleman wants to
keep it from you."

,fr He don't think it's cruel, bless you," said Kit, " and
jdon't mean it to be so, or he wouldn't do it — I do con-
sider, mother, that he wouldn't do it for all the gold and
silver in the world. No, no, that he wouldn't. I know
him better than that."

" Then what does he do it for, and why does he keep it
so close from you ? " said Mrs. Nubbles.

" That I don't know," returned her son. " If he hadn't
tried to keep it so close though, I should never have found
it out, for it was his getting me away at night and sending
me off so much earlier than he used to, that first made me
curious to know what was going on. Hark ! what's
that ? "

" It's only somebody outside."

" It's somebody crossing over here " — said Kit, stand-
ing up to listen, " and coming very fast too. He can't
have gone out after I left, and the house caught fire,
mother ! "

The boy stood for a moment, really bereft, by the ap-
prehension he had conjured up, of the power to move.
The footsteps drew nearer, the door was opened with a
hasty hand, and the child herself, pale and breathless, and
hastily wrapped in a few disordered garments, hurried in-
to the room.

" Miss Nelly ! What is the matter ! " cried mother and
son together.

" I must not stay a moment," she returned, " grand-
father has been taken very ill, I found him in a fit upon
the floor—"

55

" I'll run for a doctor " — said Kit, seizing his brimless
hat. " I'll be there directly, I'll—"

" No, no," cried Nell, " there is one there, you're not
wanted, you — you — must never come near us any more ! "

" What ! " roared Kit.

" Never again," said the child. " Don't ask me why,
for I don't know. Pray don't ask me why, pray don't be
sorry, pray don't be vexed with me, I have nothing to do
with it indeed ! "

Kit looked at her with his eyes stretched wide, and
opened and shut his mouth a great many times, but
couldn't get out one word.

" He complains and raves of you," said the child, " I
don't know what you have done, but I hope it's nothing
very bad."

"/done !" roared Kit.

" He cries that you're the cause of all his misery," re-
turned the child with tearful eyes ; " he screamed and
called for you, they say you must not come near him or
he will die. You must not return to us any more. I came
to tell you. I thought it would be better that I should
come than somebody quite strange. Oh, Kit, what have
you done ? You, in whom I trusted so much, and who
were almost the only friend I had ! "

The unfortunate Kit looked at his young mistress harder
and harder, and with eyes growing wider and wider, but
was perfectly motionless and silent.

" I have brought his money for the week," said the
child, looking to the woman and laying it on the table —
" and — and — a little more, for he was always good and
kind to me. I hope he will be sorry and do well some-
where else and not take this to heart too much. It grieves
me very much to part with him like this, but there is no
help. It must be done. Good-night ! "

With the tears streaming down her face, and her slight

56

figure trembling with the agitation of the scene she had
left, the shock she had received, the errand she had just
discharged, and a thousand painful and affectionate feel-
ings, the child hastened to the door, and disappeared as
rapidly as she had come.

The poor woman, who had no cause to doubt her son,
but every reason for relying on his honesty and truth, was
staggered, notwithstanding, by his not having advanced
one word in his defense. Visions of gallantry, knavery,
robbery ; and of the nightly absences from home for
which he had accounted so strangely, having been occa-
sioned by some unlawful pursuit ; flocked into her brain
and rendered her afraid to question him. She rocked
herself upon a chair, wringing her hands and weeping bit-
terly, but Kit made no attempt to comfort her and re-
mained quite bewildered. The baby in the cradle woke
up and cried, the boy in the clothesbasket fell over on
his back with the basket upon him and was seen no more,
the mother wept louder yet and rocked faster, but Kit,
insensible to all the din and tumult, remained in a state of
utter stupefaction.

CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.

Quiet and solitude were destined to hold uninterrupted
rule no longer, beneath the roof that sheltered the child.
Next morning the old man was in a raging fever accom-
panied with delirium, and sinking under the influence of
this disorder he lay for many weeks in imminent peril of
his life. There was watching enough now, but it was the
watching of strangers who made of it a greedy trade, and
who, in the intervals of their attendance upon the sick
man huddled together with a ghastly good-fellowship, and

57

ate and drank and made merry; for disease and death
were their ordinary household gods.

Yet in all the hurry and crowding of such a time, the
child was more alone than she had ever been before ;
alone in spirit, alone in her devotion to him who was
wasting away upon his burning bed ; alone in her un-
feigned sorrow, and her unpurchased sympathy. Day
after day, and night after night, found her still by the pil-
low of the unconscious sufferer, still anticipating his every
want, and still listening to those repetitions of her name
and those anxieties and cares for her, which were ever
uppermost among his feverish wanderings.

The house was no longer theirs. Even the sick chamber
seemed to be retained on the uncertain tenure of Mr.
Quilp's favor. The old man's illness had not lasted many
days when he took formal possession of the premises and
all upon them, in virtue of certain legal powers to that
effect, which few understood and none presumed to call in
question. This important step secured, with the assist-
ance of a man of law whom he brought with him for the
purpose, the dwarf proceeded to establish himself and his
coadjutor in the house, as an assertion of his claim against
all comers ; and then set about making his quarters com-
fortable after his own fashion.

To this end, Mr. Quilp encamped in the back parlor,
having first put an effectual stop to any further business
by shutting up the shop. Having looked out from among
the old furniture the handsomest and most commodious
chair he could possibly find, which he reserved for his' own
use, and an especially hideous and uncomfortable one,
which he considerately appropriated to the accommoda-
tion of his friend, he caused them to be carried into this
room and took up his position in great state. The apart-
ment was very far removed from the old man's chamber,
but Mr. Quilp deemed it prudent, as a precaution against

5»

infection from fever, and a means of wholesome fumiga-
tion, not only to smoke himself without cessation, but to
insist upon it that his legal friend did the like. More-
over, he sent an express to the wharf for the tumbling
boy, who arriving with all despatch was enjoined to sit
himself down in another chair just inside the door, con-
tinually to smoke a great pipe which the dwarf had pro-
vided for the purpose, and to take it from his lips under
any pretense whatever, were it only for one minute at a
time, if he dared. These arrangements completed, Mr.
Quilp looked round him with chuckling satisfaction, and
remarked that he called that comfort.

The legal gentleman, whose melodious name was Brass,
might have called it comfort also but for two drawbacks :
one was that he could by no exertion sit easily in his chair,
the seat of which was very hard, angular, slippery, and
sloping ; the other that tobacco smoke always caused
him great internal discomposure and annoyance. But as
he was quite a creature of Mr. Quilp's and had a thousand
reasons for conciliating his good opinion, he tried to smile,
and nodded his acquiescence with the best grace he could
assume.

This Brass was an attorney of no very good repute from
Bevis Marks in the City of London ; he was a tall, meager
man, with a nose like a wen, a protruding forehead, re-
treating eyes, and hair of a deep red. He wore a long
black surtout reaching nearly to his ankles, short black
trousers, high shoes, and cotton stockings of a bluish
gray. He had a cringing manner but a very harsh voice,
and his blandest smiles were so extremely forbidding, that
to have had his company under the least repulsive circum-
stances, one would have wished him to be out of temper
that he might only scowl.

Quilp looked at his legal adviser, and seeing that he
was winking very much in the anguish of his pipe, that he

S9

sometimes shuddered when he happened to inhale its full
flavor, and that he constantly fanned the smoke from
him, was quite overjoyed and rubbed his hands with glee.

" Smoke away, you dog," said Quilp turning to the boy ;
"fill your pipe again and smoke it fast, down to the last
whiff, or I'll put the sealing-waxed end of it in the fire and
rub it red hot upon your tongue."

Luckily the boy was case-hardened, and would have
smoked a small limekiln if anybody had treated him with
it. Wherefore he only muttered a brief defiance of his
master, and did as he was ordered.

" Shall we stop here long, Mr. Quilp ? " inquired his
legal friend.

" We must stop, I suppose, till the old gentleman up
stairs is dead," returned Quilp.

" He ! he ! he ! " laughed Mr. Brass, " oh ! very good ! "

" Smoke away ! " cried Quilp. " Never stop ! you can
talk as you smoke. Don't lose time."

"He ! he ! he ! " cried Brass faintly, as he again applied
himself to the odious pipe. " But if he should get better,
Mr. Quilp ? "

" Then we shall stop till he does, and no longer," re-
turned the dwarf.

" How kind it is of you, Sir, to wait till then ! " said
Brass. " Some people, Sir, would have sold or removed
the goods — oh dear, the very instant the law allowed 'em.
Some people, Sir, would have been all flintiness and
granite. Some people, Sir, would have — "

" Some people would have spared themselves the jab-
bering of such a parrot as you," interposed the dwarf.

" He! he! he ! " cried Brass. " You have such spirits ! "

The smoking sentinel at the door interposed in this
place, and without taking his pipe from his lips, growled,

" Here's the gal a comin' down."

" Oh ! " said Quilp, drawing in his breath with great

6o

relish as if he were taking soup. " Aha ! Nelly ! How is
he now, my duck of diamonds ? "

" He's very bad," replied the weeping child.

" What a pretty little Nell 1 " cried Quilp.

" Oh beautiful, Sir, beautiful indeed," said Brass.
" Quite charming ! "

" Has she come to sit upon Quilp's knee," said the
dwarf, in what he meant to be a soothing tone, " or is she
going to bed in her own little room inside here — which is
poor Nelly going to do ? "

" I'm not going to stay at all," faltered Nell. "I want
a few things out of that room, and then I — I — won't come
down here any more."

" And a very nice little room it is ! " said the dwarf
looking into it as the child entered. " Quite a bower.
You're sure you're not going to use it, you're sure you're
not coming back, Nelly ? "

" No," replied the child, hurrying away, with the few
articles of dress she had come to remove ; " never again,
never again."

"She's very sensitive," said Quilp, looking after her.
" Very sensitive ; that's a pity. The bedstead is much
about my size. I think I shall make it my little room."

Nell shrank timidly from all the dwarf's advances
towards conversation and fled from the very sound of his
voice, nor were the lawyer's smiles less terrible to her than
Quilp's grimaces. She lived in such continual dread and
apprehension of meeting one or other of them upon the
stairs or in the passages if she stirred from her grand-
father's chamber, that she seldom left it for a moment
Until late at night, when the silence encouraged her to
venture forth and breathe the pure air of some empty
room.

One night she had stolen to her usual window and was
sitting there very sorrowfully, for the old man had been

6i

worse that day, when she thought she heard her name
pronounced by a voice in the street, and looking down,
recognized Kit, whose endeavors to attract her attention
had roused her from her sad reflections.

"Miss Nell ! " said the boy in a low voice.

" Yes," replied the child, doubtful whether she ought
to hold, any communication with the supposed culprit, but
inclining to her old favorite still, " what do you want ? "

" I have wanted to say a word to you for a long time,"
the boy replied, "but the people below have driven me
away and wouldn't let me see you. You don't believe — I
hope you don't really believe — that I deserve to be cast
off as I have been ; do you, Miss ? "

" I must believe it," returned the child. " Or why
would grandfather have been so angry with you ? "

" I don't know," replied Kit. " I'm sure I've never de-
served it from him, no, nor from you. I can say that
with a true and honest heart anyway. And then to be
driven from the door, when I only came to ask how old
master was — ! "

" They never told me that," said the child. " I didn't
know it indeed. I wouldn't have had them do it for the
world."

" Thank'ee, Miss, returned Kit, " it's comfortable to
hear you say that. I said I never would believe that it
was your doing."

" That was right ! " said the child eagerly.

" Miss Nell," cried tb° boy, coming under the window
and speaking in a lower tone, "there are new masters down
stairs. It's a change for you."

" It is indeed," replied the child.

" And so it will be for him when he gets better," said
the boy, pointing towards the sick room.

" — If he ever does," added the child, unable to restrain
her tears.

62

" Oh, he'll do that, he'll do that," said Kit, " I'm sure he
will. You mustn't be cast down, Miss Nell. Now don't
be, pray."

These words of encouragement and consolation were
few and roughly said, but they affected the child and made
her for the moment weep the more.

" He'll be sure to get better now," said the boy anxiously,
" if you don't give way to low spirits and turn ill yourself,
which would make him worse and throw him back just as
he was recovering. When he does, say a good word — say
a kind word for me, Miss Nell."

" They tell me I must not even mention your name to
him for along, long time," rejoined the child, " I dare not ;
and even if I might, what good would a kind word do you,
Kit ? We shall be very poor. We shall scarcely have
bread to eat."

" It's not that I maybe taken back," said the boy, "that
I ask the favor of you. It isn't for the sake of food and
wages that I've been waiting about so long in hopes to see
you. Don't think that I'd come in a time of trouble to talk
of such things as them."

The child looked gratefully and kindly at him, but waited
that he might speak again.

" No, it's not that," said Kit hesitating, " it's something
very different from that. I haven't got much sense I
know, but if he could be brought to believe that I'd been
a faithful servant to him, doing thebest I could, and never
meaning harm, perhaps he mightn't — "

Here Kit faltered so long that the child entreated him
to speak out, and quickly, for it was very late, and time to
shut the window.

" Perhaps he mightn't think it overventuresome of me
to say — well then, to say this," — cried Kit with sudden
boldness. "This home is gone from you and him. Mother
and I have got a poor one, but that's better than this

63

with all these people here ; and why not come there, till
he's had time to look about and find a better ! "

The child did not speak. Kit, in the relief of having
made his proposition, found his tongue loosened, and spoke
out in its favor with his utmost eloquence.

" You think," said the boy, " that it's very small and in-
convenient. So it is, but it's very clean. Perhaps you think
it would be noisy, but there's not a quieter court than ours
in all the town. Don't be afraid of the children ; the baby
hardly ever cries, and the other one is very good — besides,
/'d mind 'em. They wouldn't vex you much, I'm sure.
Do try, Miss Nell, do try. The little front room upstairs
is very pleasant. You can see a piece of the church clock
through the chimneys and almost tell the time ; mother
says it would be just the thing for you, and so it would,
and you'd have her to wait upon you both, and me to run
of errands. We don't mean money, bless you ; you're not
to think of that. Will you try him, Miss Nell ? Only
say you'll try him. Do try to make old master come, and
ask him first what I have done — will you only promise that,
Miss Nell ? "

Before the child could reply to this earnest solicitation,
the street door opened, and Mr. Brass thrusting out his
night-capped head called in a surly voice, " Who's there ! "
Kit immediately glided away, and Nell, closing the window
softly, drew back into the room.

It was natural enough that her short and unfinished dia-
logue with Kit should leave a strong impression on her
mind, and influence her dreams that night and her recollec-
tions for a long, long time. Surrounded by unfeeling credi-
tors and mercenary attendants upon the sick, and meet-
ing in the height of her anxiety and sorrow with little re-
gard or sympathy even from the women about her, it is not
surprising that the affectionate heart of the child should
have been touched to the quick by one kind and generous

64

spirit, however uncouth the temple in which it dwelt.
Thank Heaven that the temples of such spirits are not
made with hands, and that they may be more worthily
hung with poor patchwork than with purple and fine linen !

CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.

At length the crisis of the old man's disorder was past,
and he began to mend. By very slow and feeble degrees
his consciousness came back, but the mind was weakened
and its functions were impaired. He was patient, and
quiet ; often sat brooding, but not despondently, for a
long space ; was easily amused, even by a sunbeam on the
wall or ceiling ; made no complaint that the days were
long or the nights tedious ; and appeared indeed to have
lost all count of time and every sense of care or weari-
ness. He would sit for hours together with Nell's small
hand in his, playing with the fingers and stopping some-
times to smooth her hair or kiss her brow ; and when he
saw that tears were glistening in her eyes would look,
amazed, about him for the cause, and forget his wonder
even while he looked.

The child and he rode out : the old man propped up
with pillows, and the child beside him. They were hand
in hand as usual. The noise and motion in the streets
fatigued his brain at first, but he was not surprised, or
curious, or pleased, or irritated. He was asked if he re-
membered this, or that. " Oh yes," he said, " quite well —
why not?" Sometimes he turned his head and looked
with earnest gaze and outstretched neck, after some
stranger in the crowd, until he disappeared from sight ;
but, to the question why he did this, he answered not a
word.

He was sitting in his easy chair one day, and Nell upon

65

a stool beside him, when a man outside the door inquired
if he might enter. " Yes," he said without emotion. It
was Quilp, he knew. Quilp was master there. Of course
he might come in. And so he did.

" I'm glad to see you well again at last, neighbor," said
the dwarf, sitting down opposite to him. " You're quite
strong now ? "

"Yes," said the old man feebly, " yes.''

" I don't want to hurry you, you know, neighbor," said
the dwarf, raising his voice, for the old man's senses
were duller than they had been ; " but, as soon as you can
arrange your future proceedings, the better."

" Surely," said the old man. " The better for all par-
ties."

" You see," pursued Quilp after a short pause, " the
goods being once removed, this house would be uncom-
fortable ; uninhabitable in fact."

" You say true," returned the old man. " Poor Nell
too, what would she do ? "

" Exactly," bawled the dwarf nodding his head ; " that's
very well observed. Then will you consider about it,
neighbor ? "

" I will, certainly," replied the old man. " We shall
not stop here."

" So I supposed," said the dwarf. " I have sold the
things. They have not yielded quite as much as they
might have done, but pretty well — pretty well. To-day's
Tuesday. When shall they be moved ? There's no hurry
— shall we say this afternoon ? "

" Say Friday morning," returned the old man.

"Very good," said the dwarf. "So be it, — with the
understanding that I can't go beyond that day, neighbor,
on any account."

"Good," returned the old man. "I shall lemember
it."

Little Nell.— I,

66

Mr. Quilp seemed rather puzzled by the strange, even
spiritless way in which all this was said ; but as the old
man nodded his head and repeated "On Friday morning.
I shall remember it," he had no excuse for dwelling upon
the subject any further, and so took a friendly leave with
many expressions of good will and many compliments to
his friend on his looking so remarkably well ; and went
below stairs to report progress to Mr. Brass.

All that day, and all the next, the old man remained in
this state. He wandered up and down- the house and
into and out of the various rooms, as if with some vague
intent of bidding them adieu, but he referred neither by
direct allusions nor in any other manner to the interview
of the morning or the necessity of finding some other
shelter. An indistinct idea he had, that the child was
desolate and in want of help, for he often drew her to his
bosom and bade her be of good cheer, saying that they
would not desert each other ; but he seemed unable to
contemplate their real position more distinctly, and was
still the listless, passionless creature, that suffering of
mind and body had left him.

Thursday arrived, and there was no alteration in the
old man. But, a change came upon him that evening, as
he and the child sat silently together.

In a small dull yard below his window, there was a tree —
green and flourishing enough, for such a place — and as
the air stirred among its leaves, it threw a rippling
shadow on the white wall. The old man sat watching
the shadows as they trembled in this patch of light until
the sun went down, and when it was night and the moon
was slowly rising he still sat in the same spot.

To one who had been tossing on a restless bed so long,
even these few green leaves and this tranquil light,
although it languished among chimneys and house tops,
were pleasant things. They suggested quiet places afar
off, and rest, and peace.

6;

The child thought more than once that he was moved,
and had forborne to speak. But now he shed tears — tears
that it lightened her aching heart to see — and making as
though he would fall upon his knees, besought her to
forgive him.

" Forgive you — what ? " said Nell, interposing to
prevent his purpose. " Oh, grandfather, what should 1
forgive ? "

" All that is past, all that has come upon thee, Nell, all
that was done in that uneasy dream," returned the old
man.

" Do not talk so," said the child. " Pray do not. Let
us speak of something else."

" Yes, yes, we will,'' he rejoined. "And it shall be of
what we talked of long ago — many months — months is it,
or weeks, or days ? which is it, Nell ?"

" I do not understand you " — said the child.

" It has come back upon me to-day, it has all come
back since we have been sitting here. I bless thee for it,
Nell ! "

" For what, dear grandfather ? "

" For what you said when we were first made beggars,
Nell. Let us speak softly. Hush ! for if they knew our
purpose downstairs, they would cry that I was mad and
take thee from me. We will not stop here another day.
We will go far away from here."

" Yes, let us go," said the child earnestly. " Let us be-
gone from this place, and never turn back or think of it
again. Let us wander barefoot through the world, rather
than linger here."

"We will " — answered the old man, "we will travel
afoot through fields and woods, and by the side of rivers,
and trust ourselves to God in the places where He dwells.
It is far better to lie down at night beneath an open sky
like that yonder — see how bright it is — than to rest in

68

close rooms which are always full of care and weary
dreams. Thou and I together, Nell, may be cheerful and
happy yet, and learn to forget this time, as if it had never
been."

" We will be happy," cried the child. "We never can
be here."

"No, we never can again — never again — that's truly
said," rejoined the old man. " Let us steal away to-
morrow morning — early and softly, that we may not be
seen or heard — and leave no trace or track for them to
follow by. Poor Nell, thy cheek is pale and thy eyes
are heavy with watching and weeping — with watching
and weeping for me — I know — for me ; but thou wilt be
well again, and merry too, when we are far away. To-
morrow morning, dear, we'll turn our faces from this
scene of sorrows, and be as free and happy as the birds."

And then the old man clasped his hands above her
head, and said in a few broken words that from that time
forth they would wander up and down together, and
never part more until Death took one or other of the twain.

The child's heart beat high with hope and confidence.
She had no thought of hunger or cold, or thirst, or suffer-
ing. She saw in this, but a return of the simple pleasures
they had once enjoyed, a relief from the gloomy solitude
in which she had lived, an escape from the heartless peo-
ple by whom she had been surrounded in her late time of
trial, the restoration of the old man's health and peace,
and a life of tranquil happiness. Sun, and stream, and
meadow, and summer days, shone brightly in her view,
tind there was no dark tint in all the sparkling picture.

The old man had slept for some hours soundly in his
bed, and she was yet busily engaged in preparing for their
flight. There were a few. articles of clothing for herself
to carry, and a few for him ; old garments, such as be-
came their fallen fortunes, laid out to wear ; and a staff

6 9

to support his feeble steps, put ready for his use. But
this was not all her task, for now she must visit the old
rooms for the last time.

And how different the parting with them was from
any she had expected, and most of all from that which
she had oftenest pictured to herself. How could she
ever have thought of bidding them farewell in triumph,
when the recollection of the many hours she had passed
among them rose to her swelling heart, and made her feel
the wish a cruelty, lonely and sad though many of those
hours had been ! She sat down at the window where she
had spent so many evenings — darker far than this — and
every thought of hope or cheerfulness that had occurred
to her in that place came vividly upon her mind, and
blotted out all its dull and mournful associations in an
instant.

Her own little room, too, where she had so often knelt
down and prayed at night — prayed for the time which
she hoped was dawning now — the little room where she
had slept so peacefully, and dreamed such pleasant
dreams — it was hard not to be able to glance round it
once more, and to be forced to leave it without one kind
look or grateful tear. There were some trifles there-
poor useless thing — that she would have liked to take
away ; but that was impossible.

This brought to mind her bird, her poor bird, who
hung there yet. She wept bitterly for the loss of this
little creature — until the idea occurred to her — she did not
know how or why it came into her head — that it might by
some means fall into the hands of Kit who would keep it
for her sake, and think perhaps that she had left it behind
in the hope that he might have it, and as an assurance
that she was grateful to him. She was calmed and com-
forted by the thought, and went to rest with a lighter heart.

From many dreams of rambling through light and sunny

7°

places, but with some vague object unattained which ran
indistinctly through them all, she awoke to find that it
was yet night, and that the stars were shining brightly in
the sky. At length the day began to glimmer, and the
stars to grow pale and dim. As soon as she was sure of
this, she arose, and dressed herself for the journey.

The old man was yet asleep, and as she was unwilling to
disturb him, she left him to slumber on until the sun rose.
He was anxious that they should leave the house without
a minute's loss of time, and was soon ready.

The child then took him by the hand, and they trod
lightly and cautiously down the stairs, trembling whenever
a board creaked, and often stopping to listen. The old
man had forgotten a kind of wallet which contained the
light burden he had to carry, and the going back a few
Steps to fetch it seemed an interminable delay.

At last they reached the passage on the ground floor,
where the snoring of Mr. Quilp and his legal friend sounded
more terrible in their ears than the roars of lions. The
bolts of the door were rusty, and difficult to unfasten
without noise. When they were all drawn back it was
found to be locked, and, worst of all, the key was gone.
Then the child remembered for the first time one of the
nurses having told her that Quilp always locked both the
house doors at night, and kept the keys on the table in
his bedroom.

It was not without great fear and trepidation that little
Nell slipped off her shoes and gliding through the store-
room of old curiosities, where Mr. Brass — the ugliest piece
of goods in all the stock — lay sleeping on a mattress,
passed into her own little chamber.

Here she stood for a few moments quite transfixed with
terror at the sight of Mr. Quilp, who was hanging so far
out of bed that he almost seemed to be standing on
his head, and who, either from the uneasiness of this pos*

7i

ture or in one of his agreeable habits, was gasping and
growling with his mouth wide open, and the whites (or
rather the dirty yellows) of his eyes distinctly visible. It
was no time, however, to ask whether anything ailed him,
so possessing herself of the key after one hasty glance
about the room, and repassing the prostrate Mr. Brass,
she rejoined the old man in safety. They got the door
open without noise, and passing into the street, stood
still.

" Which way ? " said the child.

The old man looked, irresolutely and helplessly, first
at her, then to the right and left, then at her again, and
shook his head. It was plain that she was thenceforth his
guide and leader. The child felt it, but had no doubts or
misgiving, and putting her hand in his, led him gently
away.

It was the beginning of a day in June ; the deep blue sky
unsullied by a cloud, and teeming with brilliant light. The
streets were as yet nearly free from passengers, the houses
and shops were closed, and the healthful air of morning
fell like breath from angels on the sleeping town.

The old man and the child passed on through the glad
silence, elate with hope and pleasure. They were alone
together once again ; every object was bright and fresh ;
nothing reminded them, otherwise than by contrast,
of the monotony and constraint they had left behind ;
church towers and steeples, frowning and dark at other
times, now shone and dazzled in the sun ; each humble
nook and corner rejoiced in light ; and the sky, dimmed
by excessive distance, shed its placid smile on everything
beneath.

Forth from the city, while it yet slumbered, went the
two poor adventurers, wandering they knew not whither.

72

CHAPTER THE NINTH.

Daniel Quilp of Tower Hill, and Sampson Brass of
Bevis Marks in the city of London, Gentleman, one of
her Majesty's attorneys of the Courts of Kind's Bench
and Common Pleas at Westminster and a solicitor of the
High Court of Chancery, slumbered on unconscious and.
unsuspicious of any mischance, until a knocking at the
street door caused the said Daniel Quilp to struggle into
a horizontal position, and to stare at the ceiling with a
drowsy indifference, betokening that he heard the noise
and rather wondered at the same, but couldn't be at the
trouble of bestowing any further thought upon the sub-
ject.

As the knocking, however, instead of accommodating
itself to his lazy state, increased in vigor, Daniel Quilp
began by degrees to comprehend the possibility of there
being somebody at the door, and thus he gradually came
to recollect that it was Friday morning, and he had
ordered Mrs. Quilp to be in waiting upon him at an early
hour.

Mr. Brass, after writhing about in a great many strange
attitudes, and often twisting his face and eyes into an ex-
pression like that which is usually produced by eating
gooseberries very early in the season, was by this time
awake also, and seeing that Mr. Quilp invested himself in
his everyday garments, hastened to do the like, putting
on his shoes before his stockings, and thrusting his legs
into, his coat sleeves, and making such other small mis-
takes in his toilet as are not uncommon to those who
dress in a hurry, and labor under the agitation of having
been suddenly roused.

While the attorney was thus engaged, the dwarf was
groping under the table, muttering desperate impreca-

73

tions upon himself and mankind in general and all inan-
imate objects to boot, which suggested to Mr. Brass the
question " what's the matter ? "

" The key," said the dwarf, looking viciously at him,
" the door key,— that's the matter. D'ye know anything
of it?"

" How should I know anything of it, Sir ? " returned
Mr. Brass.

" How should you ? " repeated Quilp with a sneer.
" You're a nice lawyer, an't you."

Not caring to represent to the dwarf in his present hu-
mor, that the loss of a key by another person could
scarcely be said to affect his (Brass's) legal knowledge in
any material degree, Mr. Brass humbly suggested that it
must have been forgotten over night, and was doubtless
at that moment in its native keyhole. Notwithstanding
that Mr. Quilp had a strong conviction to the contrary,
founded on his recollection of having carefully taken it
out, he was fain to admit that this was possible, and
therefore went grumbling to the door where, sure enough,
he found it.

Now, just as Mr. Quilp laid his hand upon the lock and
saw with great astonishment that the fastenings were un-
done, the knocking came again. The dwarf was very
much exasperated, and wanting somebody to wreak his
ill humor upon, determined to dart out suddenly and fa-
vor Mrs. Quilp with a gentle acknowledgment of her at-
tention in waking him so early.

With this view he drew back the lock very silently and
softly, and opening the door all at once, pounced out
upon Mrs. Quilp who stood trembling outside.

" You'd better walk in," said the dwarf. " Go on, go
on. Mrs. Quilp — after you, ma'am."

Mrs. Quilp hesitated, but Mr. Quilp insisted. And it
was not a contest of politeness, or by any means a matter

74

of form, for she knew very well that her husband wished
to enter the house in this order, that he might have a
favorable opportunity of inflicting a few pinches on her
arms, which were seldom free from impressions of his
fingers in black and blue colors.

" Now, Mrs. Quilp," said the dwarf when they had en-
tered the shop, " go you up stairs, if you please, to Nelly's
room, and tell her that she's wanted."

Mrs. Quilp, only too glad to escape from h,er husband's
attentions, disappeared and soon came hurrying down-
stairs, declaring that the rooms above were empty.

" Empty ! " said the dwarf.

" I give you my word, Quilp,'' answered his trembling
wife, " that I have been into every room and there's not
a soul in any of them."

" And that," said Mr. Brass, clapping his hands once,
with an emphasis, " explains the mystery of the key ! "

Quilp looked frowningly at him, and frowningly at his
wife, but, receiving no enlightenment from either of them,
hurried upstairs, whence he soon hurried down again,
confirming the report which had been already made.

" It's a strange way of going, very strange not to
communicate with me who am such a close and intimate
friend of his ! Ah ! he'll write to me no doubt, or he'll
bid Nelly write — yes, yes, that's what he'll do. Nelly's
very fond of me. Pretty Nell ! "

Quilp turned to Mr. Brass and observed with assumed
carelessness, that this need not interfere with the re-
moval of the goods.

" For indeed," he added, " we knew that they'd go
away to-day, but not that they'd go so early or so quietly.
But they have their reasons, they have their reasons."

In his secret heart, Daniel Quilp was both surprised
and troubled by the flight which had been made. It had
not escaped his keen eye that some indispensable articles

75

of clothing were gone with the fugitives, and knowing
the old man's weak state of mind, he marveled what that
course of proceeding might be in which he had so readily
procured the concurrence of the child. It must not be
supposed (or it would be a gross injustice to Mr. Quilp)
that he was tortured by any disinterested anxiety on behalf
of either. His uneasiness arose from a misgiving that the
old man had some secret store of money which he had
not suspected, and the bare idea of its escaping his
clutches, overwhelmed him with mortification and self-
reproach.

By this time certain vans had arrived for the convey-
ance of the goods, and divers strong men in carpet caps
were balancing chests of drawers and other trifles of
that nature upon their heads, and performing muscular
feats which heightened their complexions considerably.
Not to be behindhand in the bustle, Mr. Quilp went to
work with surprising vigor ; hustling and driving the
people about, like an evil spirit ; setting Mrs. Quilp upon
all kinds of arduous and impracticable tasks ; carrying
great weights up and down with no apparent effort ; kick-
ing the boy from the wharf whenever he could get near
him ; and inflicting with his loads a great many sly bumps
and blows upon the shoulders of Mr. Brass, as he stood
upon the doorsteps to answer all the inquiries of curious
neighbors, which was his department. His presence
and example diffused such alacrity among the persons
employed, that in a few hours the house was emptied of
everything, but pieces of matting, and scattered frag-
ments of straw.

Seated, like an African chief, on one of these pieces of
matting, the dwarf was regaling himself in the parlor
with bread and cheese, when he observed, without ap-
pearing to do so, that a boy was prying in at the outer
door. Assured that it was Kit, though he saw little

7 6

more than his nose, Mr. Quilp hailed him by his name ;
whereupon Kit came in and demanded what he wanted.

" Come here, you Sir," said the dwarf. " Well, so your
old master and young mistress have gone ? "

" Where ? " rejoined Kit, looking round.

" Do you mean to say you don't know where?" an-
swered Quilp sharply. " Where have they gone, eh ? "

" I don't know," said Kit.

" Come," retorted Quilp, " let's have no more of this !
Do you mean to say that you don't know they went away
by stealth, as soon as it was light this morning ? "

" No," said the boy, in evident surprise.

" You don't know that ? " cried Quilp. " Don't I know
that you were hanging about the house the other night,
like a thief, eh ? Weren't you told then ? "

" No," replied the boy.

" You were not ? " said Quilp. " What were you told
then ; what were you talking about ? "

Kit, who knew no particular reason why he should keep
the matter secret now, related the purpose for which he
had come on that occasion, and the proposal he had
made.

" Oh ! " said the dwarf after a little consideration.
" Then, I think they'll come to you yet."

" Do you think they will ? " cried Kit eagerly.

" Ay, I think they will," returned the dwarf. " Now,
when they do, let me know ; d'ye hear ? Let me know,
and I'll give you something. I want to do 'em a kind-
ness, and I can't do 'em a kindness unless I know where
they are. You hear what I say ?"

Kit might have returned some answer which would not
have- been agreeable to his irascible questioner, if the
boy from the wharf, who had been skulking about the room
in search of anything that might have been left about by
accident, had not happened to cry, " Here's a bird !
What's to be done with this ? "

77

u Wring its neck," rejoined Quilp.
" Oh no, don't do that," said Kit, stepping forward.
" Give it to me."

" Oh yes, I dare say," cried the other boy. " Come !
You let the cage alone, and let me wring its neck, will
you ? He said I was to do it. You let the cage alone,
will you ? "

" Give it here, give it to me, you dogs," roared Quilp.
" Fight for it, you dogs, or I'll wring its neck myself ! "

Without further persuasion, the two boys fell upon each
other tooth and nail. They were a pretty equal match,
and rolled about together, exchanging blows which were
by no means child's play until at length Kit, planting a
well-directed hit in his adversary's chest, disengaged him-
self, sprang nimbly up, and snatching the cage from
Quilp's hands made off with his prize.

He did not stop once until he reached home, where his
bleeding face occasioned great consternation, and caused
the elder child to howl dreadfully.

" Goodness gracious, Kit, what is the matter, what
have you been doing ?" cried Mrs. Nubbles.

" Never you mind, mother," answered her son, wiping
his face on the jack towel behind the door. " I'm not
hurt, don't you be afraid for me. I've been a fightin' for
a bird and won him, that's all. Hold your noise, little
Jacob. I never see such a naughty boy in all my days ! "
" You have been fighting for a bird ! " exclaimed his
mother.

"Ah ! Fightin' for a bird ! " replied Kit, "and here he
is — Miss Nelly's bird, mother, that they was agoin' to
wring the- neck of ! I stopped that though — ha ! ha ! ha !
They wouldn't wring his neck and me by, no, no. It
wouldn't do, mother, it wouldn't do at all. Ha ! ha ! ha ! "
Kit laughing so heartily, with his swollen and bruised
face looking out of the towel, made little Jacob laugh, and

then his mother laughed, and then the baby crowed and
kicked with great glee, and then they all laughed in con-
cert, partly because of Kit's triumph, and partly because
they were very fond of each other. When this fit was
over, Kit exhibited the bird to both children, as a great
and precious rarity — it was only a poor linnet — and look-
ing about the wall for an old nail, made a scaffolding of a
chair and table and twisted it out with great exultation.

" Let me see," said the boy, " I think I'll hang him in
the winder, because it's more light and cheerful, and he
can see the sky there, if he looks up very much. He's
such a one to sing, I can tell you ! "

So, the scaffolding was made again, and Kit, climbing up
with the poker for a hammer, knocked in the nail and hung
up the cage, to the immeasurable delight of the whole
family. When it had been adjusted and straightened a
great many times, and he had walked backwards into the
fireplace in his admiration of it, the arrangement was pro-
nounced to be perfect.

" And now, mother," said the boy, " before I rest any
more, I'll go out and see if I can find a horse to hold, and
then I can buy some birdseed, and a bit of something
nice for you, into the bargain."

CHAPTER THE TENTH.

Bless us what a number of gentlemen on horseback
there were riding up and down, and how few of them
wanted their horses held !

Kit walked about, now with quick steps and now with
slow ; now lingering as some rider slackened his horse's
pace and looked about him ; and now darting at full speed
up a by-street as he caught a^glimpse of some distant
horseman going lazily up the shady side of the road, and

79

promising to stop at every door. But on they all went,
one after another, and there was not a penny stirring.
" I wonder," thought the boy, " if one of these gentlemen
knew there was nothing in the cupboard at home, whether
he'd stop on purpose, and make believe that he wanted to
call somewhere, that I might earn a trifle ?"

He was quite tired out with pacing the streets, to say
nothing of repeated disappointments, and was sitting
down upon a step to rest, when there approached towards
him a little clattering jingling four-wheeled chaise, drawn
by a little obstinate-looking rough-coated xpony, and
driven by a little fat placid-faced old gentleman. Beside
the little old gentleman sat a little old lady, plump and
placid like himself, and the pony was coming along at his
own pace and doing exactly as he pleased with the whole
concern. If the old gentleman remonstrated by shaking
the reins, the pony replied by shaking his head. It was
plain that the utmost the pony would consent to do, was
to go in his own way up any street that the old gentle-
man particularly wished to traverse, but~that it was an
understanding between them that he must do this after
his own fashion or not at all.

As they passed where he sat, Kit looked so wistfully at
the little turn-out that the old gentleman looked at him,
and Kit rising and putting his hand to his hat, the old
gentleman intimated to the pony that he wished to stop,
to which proposal the pony (who seldom objected to that
part of his duty) graciously acceded.

" I beg your pardon, Sir," said Kit. " I'm sorry you
stopped, Sir. I only meant did you want yeur horse
minded."

" I'm going to get down in the next street," returned
the old gentleman. " If you like to come on after us, you
may have the job."

Kit thanked him, and joyfully obeyed. The pony ran

8o

off at a sharp angle to inspect a lamp post on the oppo-
site side of the way, and then went off at a tangent to
another lamp post on the other side. Having satisfied
himself that they were of the same pattern and materials,
he came to a stop, apparently absorbed in meditation.

"Will you go on, Sir," said the old gentleman, gravely,
" or are we to wait here for you till it's too late for our
appointment ? "

The pony remained immovable.

" Oh you naughty Whisker," said the old lady. " Fie
upon you ! I'm ashamed of such conduct."

The pony appeared to be touched by this appeal to his
feelings, for he trotted on directly, though in a sulky
manner, and stopped no more until he came to a door
whereon was a brass plate with the words " Witherden —
Notary." Here the old gentleman got out and helped
out the old lady, and then took from under the seat a
nosegay resembling in shape and dimensions a full-sized
warming pan with the handle cut short off. This, the old
lady carried into the house with a staid and stately air,
and the old gentleman (who had a clubfoot) followed
close upon her.

They went, as it was easy to tell from the sound of
their voices, into the front parlor, which seemed to be a
kind of office. The day being very warm and the street a
quiet one, the windows were wide open, and it was easy to
hear through the Venetian blinds all that passed inside.

At first there was a great shaking of hands and shuf-
fling of feet, succeeded by the presentation of the nose-
gay, for «a voice, supposed by the listener to be that of
Mr. Witherden the notary, was heard to exclaim a great
many times, " Oh, delicious ! " " Oh, fragrant, indeed ! "
and a nose, also supposed to be the property of that gen-
tleman, was heard to inhale the scent with a snuffle of ex-
ceeding pleasure.

8i

" I brought it in honor of the occasion, Sir," said the
old lady.

" Ah ! an occasion indeed, ma'am ; an occasion which
does honor to me, ma'am, honor to me," rejpined Mr.
Witherden the Notary. " I have had many a gentleman
articled to me, ma'am, many a one. Some of them are
now rolling in riches, unmindful of their old companion
and friend, ma'am, others are in the habit of calling upon me
to this day and saying, ' Mr. Witherden, some of the pleas-
antest hours I ever spent in my life were spent in this
office — were spent, Sir, upon this very stool ; ' but there
was never one among the number, ma'am, attached as I
have been to many of them, of whom I augured such bright
things as I do of your only son."

" Oh dear ! " said the old lady. " How happy you do
make us when you tell us that, to be sure ! "

■' I tell you, ma'am," said Mr. Witherden, " what I think
as an honest man, which, as the poet observes, is the
noblest work of God. I agree with the poet in every par-
ticular, ma'am. The mountainous Alps on the one hand, or
a humming bird on the other, is nothing, in point of work-
manship, to an honest man — or woman — or woman."

" Anything that Mr. Witherden can say of me," observed
a small quiet voice, " I can say with interest of him, I am
sure."

" It's a happy circumstance, a truly happy circum-
stance," said the notary, " to happen too upon his eight-
and-twentieth birthday, and I hope I know how to appre-
ciate it. I trust, Mr. Garland, my dear Sir, that we may
mutually congratulate each other upon this auspicious
occasion."

To this the old gentleman replied that he felt assured
they might. There appeared to be another shaking of
hands in consequence, and when it was over, the old gentle-
man said that, though he said it who should not, he

Little Nell.- -6.

82

believed no son had ever been a greater comfort to his
parents than Abel Garland had been to his.

"You see, Mr. Witherden," said the old lady, "that
Abel has not been brought up like the run of young men.
He has always had a pleasure in our society, and always
been with us. Abel has never been absent from us, for a
day ; has he, my dear ? "

"Never, my dear," returned the old gentleman, " except
when he went to Margate one Saturday with Mr. Tomkin-
ley that had been a teacher at that school he went to, and
came back upon the Monday ; but he was very ill after
that, you remember, my dear ; it was quite a dissipation."

"He was not used to it, you know," said the old lady,
" and he couldn't bear it, that's the truth. Besides he had
no comfort in being there without us, and had nobody to
talk to or enjoy himself with."

" That was it, you know," interposed the same small
quiet voice that had spoken once before. " I was quite
abroad, mother, quite desolate, and to think that the sea
was between us — oh, I never shall forget what I felt when
I first thought that the sea was between us ! "

"Very natural under the circumstances," observed the
notary. " Mr. Abel's feelings did credit to his nature, and
credit to your nature, ma'am, and his father's nature, and
human nature. I trace the same current now, flowing
through all his quiet and unobtrusive proceedings. — I am
about to sign my name, you observe, at the foot of the ar-
ticles which Mr. Chuckster will witness ; and, placing my
finger upon this blue wafer with the vandyked corners, I
am constrained to remark in a distinct tone of voice —
don't be alarmed, ma'am, it is merely a form of law — that I
deliver this, as my act and deed. Mr. Abel will place his
name against the other wafer, repeating the same cab-
alistic words, and the business is over. Ha ! ha ! ha ! You
see how easily these things are done ! "

83

There was a short silence, apparently, while Mr. Abel
went through the prescribed form, and then the shaking of
hands and shuffling of feet were renewed. In about a
quarter of an hour Mr. Chuckster (with a pen behind his
ear) appeared at the door, and condescending to address
Kit by the jocose appellation of " Young Snob," informed
him that the visitors were coming out.

Out they came forthwith ; Mr. Witherden, who was short,
chubby, fresh-colored, brisk, and pompous, leading the old
lady with extreme politeness, and the father and son fol-
lowing them, arm in arm. Mr. Abel, who had a quaint old-
fashioned air about him, looked nearly of the same age as
his father, and bore a wonderful resemblance to him in
face and figure, though wanting something of his full,
round cheerfulness, and substituting in its place a timid re-
serve. In all other respects, in the neatness of the dress,
and even in the clubfoot, he and the old gentleman were
precisely alike.

Having seen the old lady safely in her seat, and assisted
in the arrangement of her cloak and a small basket which
formed an indispensable portion of her equipage, Mr. Abel
got into a little box behind which had evidently been
made for his express accommodation, and smiled at every-
body present by turns, beginning with his mother and end-
ing with the pony. There was then a great to-do to make
the pony hold up his head that the bearing rein might be
fastened ; at last even this was effected ; and the old gentle-
man, taking his seat and the reins, put his hand in his
pocket to find a sixpence for Kit.

He had no sixpences, neither had the old lady, nor Mr.
Abel, nor the notary, nor Mr. Chuckster. The old gentle-
man thought a shilling too much, but there was no shop
in the street to get change at, so he gave it to the boy.

" There," he said jokingly. " I'm coming here again
next Monday at the same time, and mind you're here, my
lad, to work it out."

8 4

" Thank you, Sir," said Kit. " I'll be sure to be here."
He was quite serious, but they all laughed heartily at
his saying so, especially Mr. Chuckster, who roared out-
right and appeared to relish the joke amazingly. As the
pony, with a presentiment that he was going home, or a
determination that he would not go anywhere else (which
was the same thing) trotted away pretty nimbly, Kit had
no time to justify himself, and went his way also.

Having expended his treasure in such purchases as he
knew would be most acceptable at home, not forgetting
some seed for the wonderful bird, he hastened back as
fast as he could, so elated with his success and great good
fortune, that he more than half expected Nell and the old
man would have arrived before him.

CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH.

Often, while they were yet pacing the silent streets of
the town on the morning of their departure, the child
trembled with a mingled sensation of hope and fear as in
some far-off figure imperfectly seen in the clear distance,
her fancy traced a likeness to honest Kit. But although
she would gladly have given him her hand and thanked
him for what he had said at their last meeting, it was
always a relief to find, when they came nearer to each
other, that the person who approached was not he, but a
stranger ; for even if she had not dreaded the effect which
the sight of him might have wrought upon, her fellow-
traveler, she felt that to bid farewell to anybody now,
and most of all to him who had been so faithful and so
true, was more than she could bear. It was enough to
leave dumb things behind, and objects that were insensible
both to her love and sorrow. To have parted from her

85

only other friend upon the threshold of that wild journey,
would have wrung her heart indeed.

The two pilgrims, often pressing each other's hands, or
exchanging a smile or cheerful look, pursued their way in
silence. Bright and happy as it was, there was something
solemn in the long, deserted streets, from which like bodies
without souls all habitual character and expression had de-
parted, leaving but one dead uniform repose, that made
them all alike. All was so still at that early hour, that
the few pale people whom they met seemed as much un-
suited to the scene as the sickly lamp which had been
here and there left burning was powerless and faint in
the full glory of the sun.

Before they had penetrated very far into the labyrinth
of men's abodes which yet lay between them and the out-
skirts, this aspect began to melt away, and noise and
bustle to usurp its place. Some straggling carts and
coaches rumbling by first broke the charm, then others
came, then others yet more active, then a crowd. The
wonder was at first to see a tradesman's window open, but
it was a rare thing soon to see one closed ; then smoke
rose slowly from the chimneys, and sashes were thrown
up to let in air, and doors were opened, and servant
girls, looking lazily in all directions but their brooms,
scattered brown clouds of dust into the eyes of shrink-
ing passengers, or listened disconsolately to milkmen who
spoke of country fairs, and told of wagons in the mews,
with awnings and all things complete and gallant swains
to boot, which another hour would see upon their journey.

At length these streets, becoming more straggling yet,
dwindled and dwindled away, until there were only small
garden patches bordering the road, with many a summer-
house innocent of paint and built of old timber or some
fragments of a boat, green as the tough cabbage stalks
that grew about it, and grottoed at the seams with toad-

86

stools and tight-sticking snails. To these succeeded pert
cottages, two and two with plots of ground in front, laid
out in angular beds with stiff box borders and narrow
paths between, where footstep never strayed to make the
gravel rough. Then came the public house, freshly
painted in green and white, with tea gardens and a bowl-
ing green, spurning its old neighbor with the horse
trough where the wagons stopped ; then fields ; and
then some houses, one by one, of goodly size with lawns (
some even with a lodge where dwelt a porter and his wife.
Then came a turnpike ; then fields again with trees and
haystacks ; then a hill ; and on the top of that the trav-
eler might stop, and — looking back at old Saint Paul's
looming through the smoke, its cross peeping above the
cloud (if the day were clear), and glittering in the sun ;
and casting his eyes upon the Babel out of which it grew
until he traced it down to the furthest outposts of the
invading army of bricks and mortar whose station lay for
the present nearly at his feet — might feel at last that he
was clear of London.

Near such a spot as this, and in a pleasant field, the old
man and his little guide (if guide she were, who knew not
whither they were bound) sat down to rest. She had had
the precaution to furnish her basket with some slices of
bread and meat, and here they made their frugal break-
fast.

The freshness of the day, the singing of the birds, the
beauty of the waving grass, the deep green leaves, the
wild flowers, and the thousand exquisite scents and
sounds that floated in the air, — deep joys to most of us,
but most of all to those whose life is in a crowd or who
live solitarily in great cities as in the bucket of a human
well, — sank into their breasts and made them very glad.
The child had repeated her artless prayers once that
morning, more earnestly perhaps than she had ever done

87

in all her life, but as she felt all this, they rose to her lips
again. The old man took off his hat — he had no memory
for the words — but he said amen, and that they were very
good.

There had been an old copy of the Pilgrim's Progress
with strange plates, upon a shelf at home, over which
she had often pored whole evenings, wondering whether
it was true in every word, and where those distant coun-
tries with the curious names might be. As she looked
back upon the place they had left, one part of it came
strongly on her mind.

" Dear grandfather,'' she said, " only that this place is
prettier and a great deal better than the real one, if that
in the book is like it, I feel as if we were both Christian,
and laid down on this grass all the cares and troubles we
brought with us ; never to take them up again."

" No — never to return — never to return " — replied the
old man, waving his hand towards the city. " Thou and
I are free of it now, Nell. They shall never lure us
back."

" Are you tired ? " said the child, " are you sure you don't
feel ill from this long walk ?"

" I shall never feel ill again, now that we are once away,"
Was his reply. " Let us be stirring, Nell. We must be
further away — a long, long way further. We are too near
to stop, and be at rest. Come ! "

There was a pool of clear water in the field, in which
the child laved her hands and face, and cooled her feet
before setting forth to walk again. She would have the
old man refresh himself in this way too, and making him
sit down upon the grass, cast the water on him with her
hands, and dried it with her simple dress.

" 1 can do nothing for myself, my darling,'' said the
grandfather, " I don't know how it is, I could once, but the
time's gone. Don't leave me, Nell ; say that thou'lt not

88

leave me. I loved thee all the while, indeed I did. If I
lose thee too, my dear, I must die ! "

He laid his head upon her shoulder and moaned pite-
ously. The time had been, and a very few days before,
when the child could not have restrained her tears and
must have wept with him. But now she soothed him with
gentle and tender words, smiled at his thinking they could
ever part, and rallied him cheerfully upon the jest. He
was soon calmed and fell asleep, singing to himself in a
low voice, like a little child.

He awoke refreshed, and they continued their journey.
The road was pleasant, lying between beautiful pastures
and fields of corn, above which, poised high in the clear
blue sky, the lark trilled out her happy song. The air
came ladened with the fragrance it caught upon its way,
and the bees, upborne upon its scented breath, hummed
forth their drowsy satisfaction as they floated by.

They were now in the open country ; the houses were
very few and scattered at long intervals, often miles apart.
Occasionally they came upon a cluster of poor cottages,
some with a chair or low board put across the open door
to keep the scrambling children from the road, others shut
up close while all the family were working in the fields.
These were often the commencement of a little village :
and after an interval came a wheelwright's shed or per-
haps a blacksmith's forge ; then a thriving farm with sleepy
cows lying about the yard, and horses peering over the
low wall and scampering away when harnessed horses
passed upon the road, as though in triumph at their free-
dom. There were dull pigs too, turning up the ground in
search of dainty food, and grunting their monotonous
grumblings as they prowled about, or crossed each other
in their quest ; plump pigeons skimming round the roof
or strutting on the eaves ; and ducks and geese, far more
graceful in their own conceit ; waddling awkwardly about

8 9

the edges of the pond or sailing glibly on its surface. The
farmyard passed, then came the little inn ; and the village
tradesman's ; then the lawyer's and the parson's ; the
church then peeped out modestly from a clump of trees ;
then there were a few more cottages ; then the cage, and
pound, and not unfrequently, on a bank by the wayside, a
deep old dusty well. Then came the trim-hedged fields on
either hand, and the open road again.

They walked all day, and slept that night at a small
cottage where beds were let to travelers. Next morn-
ing they were afoot again, and though jaded at first, and
very tired, recovered before long and proceeded briskly
forward.

They often stopped to rest, but only for a short space
at a time, and still kept on, having had but slight refresh-
ment since the morning. It was nearly five o'clock in
the afternoon, when, drawing near another cluster of
laborers' huts, the child looked wistfully in each, doubt-
ful at which to ask for permission to rest awhile, and buy
a draught of milk.

It was not easy to determine, for she was timid and
fearful of being repulsed. Here was a crying child, and
there a noisy wife. In this, the people seemed too poor ;
in that, too many. At length she stopped at one where
the family were seated round the table — chiefly because
there was an old man sitting in a cushioned chair beside
the hearth, and she thought he was a grandfather and
would feel for hers.

There were besides, the cottager and his wife, and three
young sturdy children, brown as berries. The request
was no sooner preferred, than granted. The eldest boy
ran out to fetch some milk, the second dragged two stools
towards the door, and the youngest crept to his mother's
gown, and looked at the strangers from beneath his sun-
burnt hand.

90

" God save you, master," said the old cottager in a thin
piping voice ; " are you traveling far ? "

" Yes, Sir, a long way " — replied the child ; for her
grandfather appealed to her.

" From London ? " inquired the old man.

The child said yes.

Ah ! He had been in London many a time — used to go
there often once, with wagons. It was nigh two-and-
thirty year since he had been there last, and he did hear
say there were great changes. Like enough! .He had
changed, himself, since then. Two-and-thirty year was
a long time and eighty-four a great age, though there was
some he had known that had lived to very hard upon a
hundred — and not so hearty as he, neither — no, nothing
like it.

" Sit thee down, master, in the elbowchair,'' said the
old man, knocking his stick upon the brick floor, and trying
to do so sharply. " Take a pinch out o' that box ; I don't
take much myself, for it comes dear, but I find it wakes
me up sometimes, and ye're but a boy to me. I should
have a son pretty nigh as old as you if he'd lived, but they
listed him for a so'ger — he come back home though, for
all he had but one poor leg. He always said he'd be buried
near the sundial he used to climb upon when he was a
baby, did my poor boy, and his words come true — you
can see the place with your own eyes ; we've kept the turf
up ever since."

He shook his head, and looking at his daughter with
watery eyes, said she needn't be afraid that he was going
to talk about that any more. He didn't wish to trouble
nobody, and if he had troubled anybody by what he said,
he asked pardon, that was all.

The milk arrived, and the child producing her little
basket and selecting its best fragments for her grand-
father, they made a hearty meal, The furniture, of the

9i

room was very homely of course — a few rough chairs and
a table, a corner cupboard with their little stock of
crockery and delf, a gaudy tea tray, representing a lady
in bright red, walking out with a very blue parasol, a few
common, colored Scripture subjects in frames upon the
wall and chimney, an old dwarf clothespress and an
eight-day clock, with a few bright saucepans and a kettle,
comprised the whole. But everything was clean and neat,
and as the child glanced round, she felt a tranquil air of
comfort and content to which she had long been unaccus-
tomed.

" How far is it to any town or village ? " she asked of
the husband.

" A matter of good five mile, my dear,' 7 was the reply,
" but you're not going on to-night ? "

" Yes, yes, Nell," said the old man hastily, urging her
too by signs. " Further on, further on, darling, further
away if we walk till midnight."

" There's a good barn hard by, master," said the man,
" or there's travelers' lodgings, I know, at the Plow an'
Harrer. Excuse me, but you do seem a little tired, and
unless you're very anxious to get on — "

"Yes, yes, we are," returned the old man fretfully.
" Further away, dear Nell, pray further away."

"We must go on, indeed," said the child, yielding to
his restless wish. " We thank you very much, but we
cannot stop so soon. I'm quite ready, grandfather."

But the woman had observed, from the young wan-
derer's gait, that one of her little feet was blistered and
sore, and being a woman and a mother too, she would not
suffer her to go until she had washed the place and ap-
plied some simple remedy, which she did so carefully and
with such a gentle hand — rough-grained and hard though
it was, with work — that the child's heart was too full to
admit of her saying more than a fervent " God bless

9 2 t

you ! " nor could she look back nor trust herself to speak,
until they had left the cottage some distance behind.
When she turned her head, she saw that the whole family,
even the old grandfather, were standing in the road
watching them as they went, and so, with many waves of
the hand, and cheering nods, and on one side at least not
without tears, they parted company.

They trudged forward, more slowly and painfully than
they had done yet, for another mile or thereabouts, when
they heard the sound of wheels behind them, and looking
round observed an empty cart approaching pretty briskly.
The driver on coming up to them stopped his horse and
looked earnestly at Nell.

" Didn't you stop to rest at a cottage yonder ? " he said.

"Yes, Sir," replied the child.

"Ah! They asked me to look out for you," said the
man. " I'm going your way. Give me your hand — jump
up, master."

This was a great relief, for they were very much
fatigued and could scarcely crawl along. To them the
jolting cart was a luxurious carriage, and the ride the
most delicious in the world. Nell had scarcely settled
herself on a little heap of straw in one corner, when she
fell asleep, for the first time that day.

She was awakened by the stopping of the cart, which
was about to turn up a by-lane. The driver kindly got
down to help her out, and pointing to some trees at a
very short distance before them, said that the town lay
there, and that they had bette take the path which they
would see, leading through the churchyard. Accord-
ingly, towards this spot they directed their weary steps.

93

CHAPTER THE TWELFTH.

The sun was setting when they reached the wicket gate
at which the path began.

The old man and the child quitted the gravel path, and
strayed among the tombs ; for there the ground was soft,
and easy to their tired feet. As they passed behind the
church, they heard voices near at hand, and presently
came on those who had spoken.

They were two men who were seated in easy attitudes
upon the grass, and so busily engaged as to be at first un-
conscious of intruders. It was not difficult to divine that
they were of a class of itinerant showmen — exhibitors of
the freaks of Punch — for, perched crosslegged upon a
tombstone behind them, was a figure of that hero himself,
his nose and chin as hooked and his face as beaming as
usual. Perhaps his imperturbable character was never
more strikingly developed, for he preserved his usual
equable smile notwithstanding that his body was dangling
in a most uncomfortable position, all loose and limp and
shapeless, while his long peaked cap, unequally balanced
against his exceedingly slight legs, threatened every in-
stant to bring him toppling down.

In part scattered upon the ground at the feet of the two
men, and in part jumbled together in a long flat box, were
the other persons of the Drama. The hero's wife and one
child, the hobbyhorse, the doctor, the foreign gentleman
who not being familiar with the language is unable in the
representation to express his ideas otherwise than by the
utterance of the word " Shallabalah '' three distinct times,
the Radical neighbor who will by no means admit that a
tin bell is an organ, and the executioner, were all here.
Their owners had evidently come to that spot to make
some needful repairs in the stage arrangements, for one

94

of them was engaged in binding together a small gallows
with thread, while the other was intent upon fixing a new
black wig, with the aid of a small- hammer and some tacks,
upon the head of the Radical neighbor, who had been
beaten bald.

They raised their eyes when the old man and his young
companion were close upon them, and pausing in their,
work, returned their looks of curiosity. One of them, the
actual exhibitor no doubt, was a little merry-faced man
with a twinkling eye and a red nose, who seemed to have
unconsciously imbibed something of his hero's character.
The other — that was he who took the money — had rather
a careful and cautious look, which was perhaps inseparable
from his occupation also.

The merry man was the first to greet the strangers
with a nod ; and following the old man's eyes, he observed
that perhaps that was the first time he , had ever seen a
Punch off the stage. (Punch, it may be remarked, seemed
to be pointing with the tip of his cap to a most flourishing
epitaph, and to be chuckling over it with all his heart.)

" Why do you come here to do this ? " said the old man,
sitting down beside them, and looking at the figures with
extreme delight.

" Why you see," rejoined the little man, " we're putting
up for to-night at the public house yonder, and it wouldn't
do to let 'em see the present company undergoing repair."

" No ! " cried the old man, making signs to Nell to lis-
ten, " why not, eh ? why not ? "

" Because it would destroy all the delusion, and take
away all the interest, wouldn't it ? " replied the little man.

" Would you care a ha'penny for the Lord Chancellor if
you know'd him in. private and without his wig? — certainly
not."

" Good ! " said the old man, venturing to touch one of
the puppets, and drawing away his hand with a shrill
laugh. " Are you going to show 'em to-night ?Are you ? "

95

" That is the intention, governor," replied the other,
" and unless I'm much mistaken, Tommy Codlin is a cal-
culating at this minute what we've lost through your com-
ing upon us. Cheer up, Tommy, it can't be much."

The little man accompanied these latter words with a
wink, expressive of the estimate he had formed of the
travelers' finances.

To this Mr. Codlin, who had a surly, grumbling manner,
replied, as he twitched Punch off the tombstone and flung
him into the box,

" I don't care if we haven't lost a farden, but you're too
free. If you stood in front of the curtain and see the
public's faces as I do, you'd know human natur' better."

" Ah ! it's been the spoiling of you, Tommy, your taking
to that branch," rejoined his companion. "When you
played the ghost in the reg'lar drama in the fairs, you be-
lieved in everything — except ghosts. But now you're a
universal mistruster. / never see a man so changed."

"Never mind," said Mr. Codlin, with the air of a dis-
contented philosopher. " I know better now, and p'raps
I'm sorry for it."

Turning over the figures in the box like one who knew,
and despised them, Mr. Codlin drew one forth and held it
up for the inspection of his friend :

" Look here ; here's all this Judy's clothes falling to
pieces again. You haven't got a needle and thread I sup-
pose ? "

The little man shook his head, and scratched it ruefully
as he contemplated this severe indisposition of a principal
performer. Seeing that they were at a loss, the child said
timidly :

" I have a needle, Sir, in my basket, and thread too.
Will you let me try to mend it fox you ? I think I can do
it neater than you could."

Even Mr. Codlin had nothing to urge against a proposal

9 6

so seasonable. Nelly, kneeling down beside the box, was
soon busily engaged in her task, and accomplishing it to a
miracle.

While she was thus engaged, the merry little man looked
at her with an interest which did not appear to be dimin-
ished when he glanced at her helpless companion. When
she had finished her work he thanked her, and inquired
whither they were traveling.

" N— no further to-night, I think," said the child, look-
ing towards her grandfather.

" If you're wanting a place to stop at," the man re-
marked, "I should advise you to take up at the same
house with us. That's it — the long, low, white house
there. It's very cheap."

The old man, notwithstanding his fatigue, would have
remained in the churchyard all night if his new acquaint-
ances had stayed there too. As he yielded to this sugges-
tion a ready and rapturous assent, they all rose and
walked away together; he keeping close to the box of
puppets in which he was quite absorbed, the merry little
man carrying it slung over his arm by a strap attached to
it for the purpose, Nelly having hold of her grandfather's
hand, and Mr. Codlin sauntering slowly behind, casting
up at the church tower and neighboring trees such looks
as he was accustomed in town practice to direct to draw-
ing-room and nursery windows, when seeking for a profit-
able spot on which to plant the show.

The public house was kept by a fat old landlord and
landlady who made no objection to receiving their new
guests, but praised Nelly's beauty and were at once pre-
possessed in her behalf. There was no other company in
the kitchen but the two showmen, and the child felt very
thankful that they had fallen upon such good quarters.
The landlady was very much astonished to learn that they
had come all the way from London, and appeared to have

97

no little curiosity touching their farther destination. The
child parried her inquiries as well as she could, and with
no great trouble, for finding that they appeared to give
her pain, the old lady desisted.

" These two gentlemen have ordered supper in an
hour's time," she said, taking her into the bar; "and your
best plan will be to sup with them. Meantime you shall
have a little taste of something that'll do you good, for
I'm sure you must want it after all you've gone through
to-day. Now, don't look after the old gentleman, because
when you've drunk that, he shall have some too."

As nothing could induce the child to leave him alone,
however, or to touch anything in which he was not the
first and greatest sharer, the old lady was obliged to help
him first. When they had been thus refreshed, the whole
house hurried away into an empty stable where the show
stood, and where, by the light of a few flaring candles
stuck round a hoop which hung by a line from the ceiling,
it was to be forthwith exhibited.

And now Mr. Thomas Codlin, the misanthrope, after
blowing away at the Pan's pipes until he was intensely
wretched, took his station on one side of the checked
drapery which concealed the mover of the figures, and
putting his hands in his pockets prepared to reply to all
questions and remarks of Punch, and to make a dismal
feint of being his most intimate private friend, of believ-
ing in him to the fullest and most unlimited extent, of
knowing that he enjoyed day and night a merry and glori-
ous existence in that temple, and that he was at all times
and under every circumstance the same intelligent and
joyful person that the spectators then beheld him. All
this Mr. Codlin did with the air of a man who had made
up his mind for the worst and was quite resigned ; his eye
slowly wandered about during the briskest repartee to ob-
serve the effect upon the audience, and particularly the

Little Ncll.—T.

9 8

impression made upon the landlord and landlady, which
might be productive of very important results in connec-
tion with the supper.

Upon this head, however, he had no cause for any
anxiety, for the whole performance was applauded to the
echo, and voluntary contributions were showered in with
a liberality which testified yet more strongly to the general
delight. Among the laughter none was more loud and
frequent than the old man's. Nell's was unheard, for she,
poor child, with her head droop/ng on his shoulder, had
fallen asleep, and slept too soundly to be roused by any
of his efforts to awaken her to a participation in his glee.

The supper was very good, but she was too tired to eat,
and yet would not leave the old man until she had kissed
him in his bed. He, happily insensible to every care and
anxiety, sat listening with a vacant smile and admiring
face to all that his new friends said ; and it was not until
they retired yawning to their room, that he followed the
child upstairs.

It was but a loft partitioned into two compartments,
where they were to rest, but they were well pleased with
their lodging and had hoped for none so good. The old
man was uneasy when he had lain down, and begged that
Nell would come and sit at his bedside as she had done
for so many nights. She hastened to him, and sat there
till he slept.

There was a little window, hardly more than a chink in
the wall, in her room, and when she left him, she opened
it, quite wondering at the silence. The sight of the old
church and the graves about it in the moonlight, and the
dark trees whispering among themselves, made her more
thoughtful than before. She closed the window again,
and sitting down upon the bed, thought of the life that was
before them.

She had-a little money, but it was very little, and when

99

that was gone, they must begin to beg. There was one
piece of gold among it, and an emergency might come
when its worth to them would be increased a hundred
fold. It would be best to hide this coin, and never pro-
duce it unless their case was absolutely desperate, and no
other resource was left them.

Her resolution taken, she sewed the piece of gold into
her dress, and going to bed with a lighter heart sank into
a deep slumber.

CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH.

Another bright day shining in through the small case-
ment, and claiming fellowship with the kindred eyes of
the child, awoke her. At sight of the strange room and
its unaccustomed objects she started up in alarm, wonder-
ing how she had been moved from the familiar chamber
in which she seemed to have fallen asleep last night, and
whither she had been conveyed. But another glance
around called to her mind all that had lately passed, and
she sprang from her bed, hoping and trustful.

It was yet early, and the old man being still asleep, she
walked out into the churchyard, brushing the dew from
the long grass with her feet, and often turning aside into
places where it grew longer than in others, that she might
not tread upon the graves. She felt a curious kind of
pleasure in lingering among these houses of the dead, and
read the inscriptions on the tombs of the good people (a
great number of good people were buried there), passing
on from one to another with increasing interest.

It was a very quiet place, as such a place should be,
save for the cawing of the rooks who had built their nests
among the branches of some tall old trees, and were call-
ing to one another, high up in the air. First one sleek

100

bird, hovering near his ragged house as it swung and
dangled in the wind, uttered his hoarse cry, quite by
chance as it would seem, and in a sober tone as though he
were but talking to himself. Another answered, and he
called again, but louder than before ; then another spoke
and then another ; and each time the first, aggravated by
contradiction, insisted on his case more strongly.

Frequently raising her eyes to the trees whence these
sounds came down and feeling as though they made the
place more quiet than perfect silence would have done, the
child loitered from grave to grave, now stopping to
replace with careful hands the bramble which had started
from some green mound it help to keep in shape, and now
peeping through one of the low latticed windows into the
church, with its worm-eaten books upon the desks, and
baize of whitened green moldering from the pew sides
and leaving the naked wood to view.

After lingering here awhile, the child thoughtfully
retraced her steps.

The old man was by this time up and dressed. Mr.
Codlin, still doomed to contemplate the harsh realities of
existence, was packing among his linen the candle ends
which had been saved from the previous night's perform-
ance ; while his companion received the compliments of
all the loungers in the stable yard, who, unable to separate
him from the master mind of Punch, set him down as next
in importance to that merry outlaw, and loved him
scarcely less. When he had sufficiently acknowledged his
popularity he came in to breakfast, at which meal they all
sat down together.

" And where are you going to-day ? " said the little
man, addressing himself to Nell.

" Indeed I hardly know, — we have not determined yet,"
replied the child.

" We're going on to the races," said the little man.

IOI

" If that's your way and you like to have us for com-
pany, let us travel together. If you prefer going alone,
only say the word and you'll find that we shan't trouble
you."

"We'll go with you," said the old man, "Nell, — with
them, with them."

The child considered for a moment, and reflecting that
she must shortly beg, and could scarcely hope to do so at
a better place than where crowds of rich ladies and gentle-
men were assembled together for purposes of enjoyment
and festivity, determined to accompany these men so far.
She therefore thanked the little man for his offer, and
said, glancing timidly towards his friend, that if there was
no objection to their accompanying them as far as the
race town —

" Objection ! " said the little man. " Now be gracious
for once, Tommy, and say that you'd rather they went
with us. I know you would. -Be gracious, Tommy."

" Trotters,' said Mr. Codlin, who talked very slowly
and eat very greedily, as is not uncommon with philoso-
phers and misanthropes ; " you're too free."

" Why, what harm can it do ? " urged the other.

" No harm at all in this particular case, perhaps," re-
plied Mr. Codlin ; " but the principle's a dangerous one,
and you're too free I tell you."

" Well, are they to go with us or not ? "

" Yes, they are," said Mr. Codlin ; " but you might have
made a favor of it, mightn't you ? "

The real name of the little man was Harris, but it had
gradually merged into the less euphonious one of Trotters,
which, with the prefatory adjective, Short, had been con-
ferred upon him by reason of the small size of his legs.
Short Trotters, however, being a compound name, incon-
venient of use in friendly dialogue, the gentleman on whom
it had been bestowed was known among his intimates-

102

either as " Short," or " Trotters," and was seldom ac-
costed at full length as Short Trotters, except in formal
conversations and on occasions of ceremony.

Breakfast being at length over, Mr. Codlin called the
bill, and divided the sum total into two fair and equal
parts, assigning one moiety to himself and friend, and the
other to Nelly and her grandfather. These being duly
discharged and all things ready for their departure, they
took farewell of the landlord and landlady and resumed
their journey.

And here Mr. Codlin's false position in society and the
effect it wrought upon his wounded spirit, were strongly
illustrated ; for whereas he had been last night accosted
by Mr. Punch as " master," and had by inference left the
audience to understand that he maintained that individual
for his own luxurious entertainment and delight, here he
was, now, painfully walking beneath the burden of that
same Punch's temple, and bearing it bodily upon his
shoulders on a sultry day and along a dusty road. In
place of enlivening his patron with a constant fire of wit
or the cheerful rattle of his quarterstaff on the heads of
his relations and acquaintance, here was that beaming
Punch utterly devoid of spine, all slack and drooping in a
dark box, with his legs doubled up round his neck, and
not one of his social qualities remaining.

Mr. Codlin trudged heavily on, exchanging a word or
two at intervals with Short, and stopping to rest and growl
occasionally. Short led the way ; with the flat box,
the private luggage (which was not extensive) tied up
in abundle, and a brazen trumpet slung from his
shoulder blade. Nell and her grandfather walked next
him on either hand, and Thomas Codlin brought up the
rear.

When they came to any town or village, or even to a de-
tached house of good appearance, Short blew a blast upon

103

the brazen trumpet and caroled a fragment of a song in
that hilarious tone common to Punches and their consorts.
If people hurried to the windows, Mr. Codlin pitched
the temple, and hastily unfurling the drapery and conceal-
ing Short therewith, flourished hysterically on- the pipes
and performed an air. Then the entertainment began as'
soon as might be ; Mr. Codlin having the responsibility of
deciding on its length and of protracting or expediting the
time for the hero's final triumph over the Enemy of man-
kind, according as he judged that the aftercrop of half-
pence would be plentiful or scant. When it had been
gathered in to the last farthing, he resumed his load and
on they went again.

They made a long day's journey, despite these interrup-
tions, and were yet upon the road when the moon was
shining in the sky. Short beguiled the time with songs and
jests, and made the best of everything that happened. Mr.
Codlin, on the other hand, cursed his fate, and all the hol-
low things of earth (but Punch especially), and limped
along with the theater on his back, a prey to the bitterest
chagrin.

They had stopped to rest beneath a finger post where
four roads met, and Mr. Codlin in his deep misanthropy
had let down the drapery and seated himself in the bottom
of the show, invisible to mortal eyes and disdainful of the
company of his fellow-creatures, when two monstrous
shadows were seen stalking towards them from a turning in
the road by which they had come. The child was at first
quite terrified by the sight of these gaunt giants — for such
they looked as they advanced with lofty strides beneath
the shadow of the trees — but Short, telling her there was
nothing to fear, blew a blast upon the trumpet, which was
answered by a cheerful shout.

" It's Grinder's lot, an't it? " cried Mr, Short in a loud
key.

104

" Yes," replied a couple of shrill voices.

" Come on then," said SJjort. " Let's have a look at;
you. I thought it was you."

Thus invited, " Grinder's lot" approached with re-;
doubled speed and soon came up with the little party.i
Mr. Grinder's company, familiarly termed a lot, consisted
of a young gentleman and a young lady on stilts, and Mr.
Grinder himself, who used his natural legs for pedestrian
purposes and carried at his back a drum. The public cos-
tume of the young people was of the Highland kind, but
the night being damp and cold, the young gentleman wore
over his kilt a man's pea-jacket reaching to his ankles and
a glazed hat ; the young lady too was muffled in an old
cloth pelisse and had a handkerchief tied about her head.
Their Scotch bonnets, ornamented with plumes of jet
black feathers, Mr. Grinder carried on his instrument.

" Bound for the races, I see," said Mr. Grinder coming
up out of breath. "So are we. How are you, Short ?"
With that they shook hands in a very friendly manner.
The young people being too high up for the ordinary sal-
utations, saluted Short after their own fashion. The
young gentleman twisted up his right stilt and patted
him on the shoulder, and the young lady rattled her tam-
bourine.

" Practice ? " said Short pointing to the stilts.

" No," returned Grinder. " It comes either to walkin'
in 'em or carryin' of 'em, and they like walkin' in 'em
best. It's wery pleasant for the prospects. Which road
are you takin' ? We go the nighest."

" Why, the fact is," said Short, " that we were going
the longest way, because then we could stop for the night,
a mile and a half on. But three or four miles gained to-
night is so many saved to-morrow, and if you keep on, I
think our best way is to do the same."

" Where's your partner ?" inquired Grinder,

105

" Here he is," cried Mr. Thomas Codliti, presenting his
head and face in the proscenium of the stage, and ex-
hibiting an expression of countenance not often seen there ;
" and he'll see his partner boiled alive before he'll go on
to-night. That's what he says."

" Well, don't say such things as them, in a spear which
is dewoted to something pleasanter," urged Short. " Re-
spect associations, Tommy, even if you do cut up rough."

" Rough or smooth," said Mr. Codlin, beating his hand
on the little footboard where Punch, when suddenly
struck with the symmetry of his legs and their capacity
for silk stockings, is accustomed to exhibit them to popu-
lar admiration, " rough or smooth, I won't go further than
the mile and a half to-night. I put up at the Jolly Sand-
boys and nowhere else. If you like to come there, come
there. If you like to go on by yourself, go on by yourself,
and do without me if you can."

So saying, Mr. Codlin disappeared from the scene and
immediately presented himself outside the theater, took
it on his shoulders at a jerk, and made off with most re-
markable agility.

Any further controversy being now out of the question,
Short was fain to part with Mr. Grinder and his pupils
and to follow his morose companion. After lingering at
the finger post for a few minutes to see the stilts frisking
away in the moonlight and the bearer of the drum toiling
slowly after them, he blew a few notes upon the trumpet
as a parting salute, and hastened with all speed to follow
Mr. Codlin. With this view he gave his unoccupied hand
to Nell, and bidding her be of good cheer as they would
soon be at the end of their journey for that night, and
stimulating the old man with a similar assurance, led
them at a pretty swift pace towards their destination,
which he was the less unwilling to make for, as the moon
was now overcast and the clouds were threatening ram,

io6

CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH.

The Jolly Sandboys was a small roadside inn of pretty
ancient date, with a sign representing three Sanboys in-
creasing their jollity with as many bags of gold, creaking
and swinging on its post on the opposite side of the road.
As the travelers had observed that day many indications
of their drawing nearer and nearer to the race town, such
as gypsy camps, carts laden with gambling booths and
their appurtenances, itinerant showmen of various kinds,
and beggars and trampers of every degree, all wending
their way in the same direction, Mr. Codlin was fearful of
finding the accommodations forestalled ; this fear increas-
ing as he diminished the distance between himself and the
hostelry, he quickened his pace, and notwithstanding the
burden he had to carry, maintained a round trot until he
reached the threshold. Here he had the gratification of
finding that his fears were without foundation, for tne
landlord was leaning against the door post looking lazily
at the rain, which had by this time begun to descend
heavily, and no tinkling of cracked bell, nor boisterous
shout, nor noisy chorus, gave note of company within.

" All alone ? " said Mr. Codlin, putting down his burden
and wiping his forehead.

" All alone as yet," rejoined the landlord, glancing at
the sky, "but we shall have more company to-night I ex-
pect. Here one of you boys, carry that show into the
barn. Make haste in out of the wet, Tom ; when it came
on to rain I told 'em to make the fire up, and there's a
glorious blaze in the kitchen, I can tell you."

Mr. Codlin followed with a willing mind, and soon
found that the landlord had not commended his prepara-
tions without good reason. A mighty fire was blazing on
the hearth and roaring up the wide chimney with a cheer-

io7

ful sound, which a large iron caldron, bubbling and sim-
mering in the heat, lent its pleasant aid to swell. There
was a deep red ruddy blush upon the room, and when the
landlord stirred the fire, sending the flames skipping and
leaping up — when he took off the lid of the iron pot and
there rushed out a savory smell, while the bubbling
sound grew deeper and more rich, and an unctuous steam
came floating out, hanging in a delicious mist above their
heads — when he did this, Mr. Codlin's heart was touched.
He sat down in the chimney corner and smiled.

Mr. Codlin sat smiling in the chimney corner, eyeing
the landlord as with a roguish look he held the cover in
his hand, and, feigning that his doing so was needful to
the welfare of the cookery, suffered the delightful steam
to tickle the nostrils of his guest. The glow of the fire
was upon the landlord's bald head, and upon his twinkling
eye, and upon his watering mouth, and upon his pimpled
face, and upon his round fat figure. Mr. Codlin drew his
sleeve across his lips, and said in a murmuring voice,
"What is it?"

" It's a stew of tripe," said the landlord smacking his
lips, " and cow heel," smacking them again, " and bacon,"
smacking them once more, "and steak," smacking them
for the fourth time, "and peas, cauliflowers, new potatoes,
and sparrowgrass, all working up together in one de-
licious gravy." Having come to the climax, he smacked
his lips a great many times, and taking a long hearty
sniff of the fragrance that was hovering about, put on the
cover again with the air of one whose toils on earth were
over.

" At what time will it be ready ? " asked Mr. Codlin
faintly.

" It'll be done to a turn," said the landlord looking up
at the clock — and the very clock had a color in its fat
white face, and looked a clock for Jolly Sandboys to

io8

consult — " it'll be done to a turn at twenty-two minutes
before eleven."

"Then," said Mr. Codlin, "don't let anybody bring
into the room even so much as a biscuit till the time
arrives."

Mr. Codlin now bethought him of his companions, and
acquainted mine host of the Sandboys that their arrival
might be shortly looked for. The rain was rattling
against the windows and pouring down in torrents, and
such was Mr. Codlin's extreme amiability of mind, that
he more than once expressed his earnest hope that they
would not be so foolish as to get wet.

At length they arrived, drenched with the rain and
presenting a most miserable appearance, notwithstanding
that Short had sheltered the child as well as he could
under the skirts of his own coat, and they were nearly
breathless from the haste they had made. But their
steps were no sooner heard upon the road than the land-
lord, who had been at the outer door anxiously watching
for their coming, rushed into the kitchen and took the
cover off. The effect was electrical. They all came in
with smiling faces, though the wet was dripping from
their clothes upon the floor, and Short's first remark was,
" What a delicious smell ! "

It is not very difficult to forget rain and mud by the
side of a cheerful fire, and in a bright room. They were
furnished with slippers and such dry garments as the
house or their own bundles afforded ; and ensconcing
themselves, as Mr. Codlin had already done, in the warm
chimney corner, soon forgot their late troubles or only
remembered them as enhancing the delights of the
present time. Overpowered by the warmth and comfort
and the fatigue they had undergone, Nelly and the old
man had not long taken their seats here, when they fell
asleep.

109

" Who are they ?" whispered the landlord.

Short shook his head, and wished he knew himself.

" Don't you know ? " asked the host, turning to Mr.
Codlin.

" Not I," he replied. " They're no good, I suppose."

" They're no harm," said Short. " Depend upon that.-
I tell you what — it's plain that the old man an't in his
right mind — "

" If you haven't got anything newer than that to say,"
growled Mr. Codlin, glancing at the clock, " you'd better
let us fix our minds upon the supper, and not disturb us."

" Hear me out, won't you ! " retorted his friend. " It's
very plain to me, besides, that they're not used to this
way of life. Don't tell me that that handsome child has
been in the habit of prowling about as she's done these
last two or three days. I know better."

" Well, who does tell you she has ? " growled Mr. Codlin,
again glancing at the clock and from it to the caldron,
" can't you think of anything more suitable to present
circumstances than saying things and then contradicting
'em?"

" I wish somebody would give you your supper,"
returned Short, " for there'll be no peace till you've got
it. Have you seen how anxious the old man is to get on
— always wanting to be furder away — furder away.
Have you seen that ? "

" Ah ! what then ? " muttered Thomas Codlin.

" This, then," said Short. " He has given his friends
the slip. Mind what I say, — he has given his friends the
slip, and persuaded this delicate young creetur all along
of her fondness for him to be his guide and traveling
companion — where to, he knows no more than the Man
in the Moon. Now, I'm not a going to stand that."

" You're not a going to stand that ! " cried Mr. Codlin,
glanckig at the clock again and pulling his hair with both

no

hands in a kind of frenzy, but whether occasioned by his
companion's observation or the tardy pace of Time, it
was difficult to determine. " Here's a world to live in ! "

" I," repeated Short emphatically and slowly, " am not
a going to stand it. I am not a going to see this fair
.young child a falling into bad hands, and getting among
people that she's no more fit for, than they are to get
among angels as their ordinary chums. Therefore when
they dewelope an intention of parting company from us,
I shall take measures for detaining of 'em, and restoring
'em to their friends, who I dare say have had their dis-
consolation pasted up on every wall in London by this
time."

"Short," said Mr. Codlin, who with his head upon his
hands, and his elbows on his knees, had been shaking
himself impatiently from side to side up to this point and
occasionally stamping on the ground, but who now looked
up with eager eyes ; " it's possible that there may be un-
common good sense in what you've said. If there is, and
there should be a reward, Short, remember that we're
partners in everything ! "

His companion had only time to nod a brief assent to
this position, for the child awoke at the instant. They
had drawn close together during the previous whispering,
and now hastily separated and were rather awkwardly
endeavoring to exchange some casual remarks in their
usual tone, when strange footsteps were heard without,
and fresh company entered.

These were no other than four very dismal dogs, who
came pattering in one after the other, headed by an old
bandy dog of particularly mournful aspect, who, stopping
when the last of his followers had got as far as the door,
erected himself upon his hind legs and looked round at
his companions, who immediately stood upon their hind
legs, in a grave and melancholy row. Nor was this the

Ill

only remarkable circumstance about these dogs, for each
of them wore a kind of little coat of some gaudy color
trimmed with tarnished spangles, and one of them had a
cap upon his head, tied very carefully under his chin,
which had fallen down upon his nose and completely
obscured one eye ; add to this, that the gaudy coats
were all wet through and discolored with rain, and that
the wearers were splashed and dirty, and some idea may
be formed of the unusual appearance of these new visitors
to the Jolly Sandboys.

Neither Short nor the landlord nor Thomas Codlin,
however, were the least surprised, merely remarking that
these were Jerry's dogs and that Jerry could not be far
behind. So there the dogs stood, patiently winking and
gaping and looking . extremely hard at the boiling pot,
until Jerry himself appeared, when they all dropped down
at once and walked about the room in their natural
manner. This posture it must be confessed did not much
improve their appearance, as their own personal tails and
their coat tails — both capital things in their way — did not
agree together.

Jerry, the manager of these dancing dogs, was a tall
black-whiskered man in a velveteen coat, who seemed
well known to the landlord and his guests and accosted
them with great cordiality. Disencumbering himself of a
barrel organ which he placed upon a chair, and retaining
in his hand a small whip wherewith to awe his company
of comedians, he came up to the fire to dry himself, and
entered into conversation.

"Your people don't usually travel in character, do
they ? " said Short, pointing to the dresses of the dogs.
" It must come expensive if they do ? "

" No," replied Jerry, " no, it's not the custom with us.
But we've been playing a little on the road to-day, and
we come out with a new wardrobe at the races, so I didn't
think it worth while to stop to undress. Down, Pedro ! "

112

This was addressed to the dog with the cap on, who be-
ing a new member of the company and not quite certain
of his duty, kept his unobscured eye anxiously on his
master, and was perpetually starting upon his hind legs
when there was no occasion, and falling down again.

" I've got a animal here/' said Jerry, putting his hand
into the capacious pocket of his coat, and diving into one
corner as if be were feeling for a small orange or an
apple or some such article, "a animal here, wot I think .
you know something of, Short."

" Ah ! " cried Short, " let's have a look at him."

" Here he is," said Jerry, producing a little terrier from
his pocket. "He was once a Toby of yours, warn't he ! "

In some versions of the great drama of Punch there is
a small dog — a modern innovation — supposed to be the
private property of that gentleman, whose name is always
Toby. This Toby has been stolen in youth from another
gentleman, and fraudulently sold to the confiding hero,
who having no guile himself has no suspicion that it lurks
in others ; but Toby, entertaining a grateful recollection
of his old master, and scorning to attach himself to any
new patrons, not only refuses to smoke a pipe at the bid-
ding of Punch, but to mark his old fidelity more strongly,
seizes him by the nose and wrings the same with violence,
at which instance of canine attachment the spectators are
deeply affected. This was the character which the little
terrier in question had once sustained ; if there had been,
any doubt upon the subject he would speedily have re-
solved it by his conduct ; for not only did he, on seeing
Short, give the strongest tokens of recognition, but catch-
ing sight of the flat box he barked so furiously at the
pasteboard nose which he knew was inside, that his mas-
ter was obliged to gather him up and put him into his
pocket again, to the great relief of the whole company.

The landlord now busied himself in laying the cloth, in
which process Mr. Codlin obligingly assisted by setting

H3

forth his own knife and fork in the most convenient place
and establishing himself behind them. When everything
was ready, the landlord took off the cover for the last
time, and then indeed there burst forth such a goodly
promise of supper, that if he had offered to put it on
again or had hinted at postponement, he would certainly
have been sacrificed on his own hearth.

However, he did nothing of the kind, but instead
thereof assisted a stout servant-girl in turning the con-
tents of the caldron into a large tureen ; a proceeding
which the dogs, proof against various hot splashes which
fell upon their noses, watched with terrible eagerness.
At length the dish was lifted on the table, little Nell ven-
tured to say grace, and supper began.

At this juncture the poor dogs were standing on their
hind legs quite surprisingly ; the child, having pity on
them, was about to cast some morsels of food to them be-
fore she tasted it herself, hungry though she was, when
their master interposed.

" No, my dear, no, not an atom from anybody's hand
but mine if you please. That dog," said Jerry, pointing
out the old leader of the troop, and speaking in a terrible
voice, "lost a halfpenny to-day. He goes without his
supper."

The unfortunate creature dropped upon his fore legs <fi-'
rectly, wagged his tail, and looked imploringly at his mas-
ter.

"You must be more careful, Sir," said Jerry, walking
coolly to the chair where he had placed the organ, and
setting the top. " Come here. Now, Sir, you play away
at that, while we have supper, and leave off if you dare.''

The dog immediately began to grind most mournful
music. His master having shown him the whip resumed
his seat and called up the others, who, at his directions,
formed in a row. standing upright as a file of soldiers.
Little MI/.—&.

114

" Now, gentlemen," said Jerry, looking at them atten-
tively. " The dog whose name's called, eats. The dogs
whose names an't called, keep quiet. Carlo ! "

The lucky individual whose name was called, snapped
up the morsel thrown towards him, but none of the others
moved a muscle. In this manner they were fed at the
discretion of their master. Meanwhile the dog in dis-
grace ground hard at the organ, sometimes in quick time,
sometimes in slow, but never leaving off for an instant.
When the knives and forks rattled very much, or any of
his fellows got an unusually large piece of fat, he accom-
panied the music with a short howl, but he immediately
checked it on his master looking round, and applied him-
self with increased diligence to the Old Hundredth.

CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH.

Supper was not yet over, when there arrived at the
Jolly Sandboys two more travelers bound for the same
haven as the rest, who had been walking in the rain for
some hours, and came in shining and heavy with water.
One of these was the proprietor of a giant, and a little
lady without iegs or arms, who had jogged forward in a
van ; the other, a silent gentleman who earned his living
by showing tricks upon the cards, and who had rather de-
ranged the natural expression of his countenance by put-
ting small leaden lozenges into his eyes and bringing
them out at his mouth, which was one of his professional
accomplishments. The name of the first of these new-
comers was Vuffin ; the other, probably as a pleasant
satire upon his ugliness, was called Sweet William. To
render them as comfortable as he could, the landlord be-
stirred himself nimbly, and in a very short time both
gentlemen were perfectly at their ease.

us

"How's the Giant?" said Short, when they all sat
smoking round the fire.

" Rather weak upon his legs," returned Mr. Vuffin. " I
begin to be afraid he's going at the knees."

" That's a bad lookout," said Short.

" Ay ! Bad indeed," replied Mr. Vuffin, contemplating
the fire with a sigh. " Once get a giant shaky on his legs,
and the public care no more about him than they do for a
dead cabbage stalk."

" What becomes of the old giants ? " said Short, turning
to him again after a little reflection.

"They're usually kept in carawans to wait upon the
dwarfs," said Mr. Vuffin.

" The maintaining of 'em must come expensive, when
they can't be shown, eh?" remarked Short, eyeing him
doubtfully.

" It's better that, than letting 'em go upon the parish
or about the streets," said Mr. Vuffin. "Once make a
giant common and giants will never draw again. Look at
wooden legs. If there was only one man with a wooden
leg what a property he'6. be ! "

" So he would ! " observed the landlord and Short both
together. " That's very true."

" Instead of which," pursued Mr. Vuffin, " if you was
to advertise Shakspeare played entirely by wooden legs,
it's my belief you wouldn't draw a sixpence."

"I don't suppose you would," said Short. And the
landlord said so too.

" This shows, you see," said Mr. Vuffin, waving his
pipe with an argumentative air, "this shows the policy of
keeping the used-up giants still in the carawans, where
they get food and lodging for nothing, all their lives, and
in general very glad they are to stop there. There was
one giant — a black 'un — as left his carawan some years
ago and took to carrying coach bills about London, making

n6

himself as cheap as crossing sweepers. He died. I make
no insinuation against anybody in particular," said Mr.
Vuffin, looking solemnly round, " but he was ruining the
trade ; — and he died."

The landlord drew his breath hard, and looked at the
owner of the dogs, who nodded and said gruffly that he
remembered.

" I know you do, Jerry," said Mr. Vuffin with profound
meaning. " I know you remember it, Jerry, and the un-
iversal opinion was, that it served him right. Why, I re-
member the time when old Maunders as had three-and-
twenty wans — I remember the time when old Maunders
had in his cottage in Spa Fields in the winter time when
the season was over, eight male and female dwarfs setting
down to dinner every day, who was waited on by eight
old giants in green coats, red smalls, blue cotton stock-
ings, and high-lows : and there was one dwarf as had
grown elderly and wicious who whenever his giant wasn't
quick enough to please him, used to stick pins in his legs,
not being able to reach up any higher. I know that's a
fact, for Maunders told it me himself."

" What about the dwarfs, when they get old ? " inquired
the landlord.

" The older a dwarf is, the better worth he is," returned
Mr. Vuffin ; " a gray-headed dwarf, well wrinkled, is be-
yond all suspicion. But a giant weak in the legs and not
standing upright ! — keep him in the carawan, but never
show him, never shdw him, for any persuasion that can
be offered."

While Mr. Vuffin and his two friends smoked their pipes
and beguiled the time with such conversation as this, the
silent gentleman sat in a warm corner, swallowing, or
seeming to swallow, sixpennyworth of halfpence for
practice, balancing a feather upon his nose, and rehears-
ing other feats of dexterity of that kind, without paying

ii7

any regard whatever to the company, who in their turn
left him utterly unnoticed. At length the weary child
prevailed upon her grandfather to retire, and they with-
drew, leaving the company yet seated round the fire, and
the dogs fast asleep at a humble distance.

After bidding the old man good night, Nell retired to
her poor garret, but had scarcely closed the door, when
it was gently tapped at. She opened it directly, and was
a little startled by the sight of Mr. Thomas Codlin, whom
she had left, to all appearance, fast asleep downstairs.

" What is the matter ? " said the child.

" Nothing's the matter, my dear," returned her visitor.
" I'm your friend. Perhaps you haven't thought so, but
it's me that's your friend — not him."

" Not who? " the child inquired.

" Short, my dear. I tell you what," said Codlin, " for
all his having a kind of way with him that you'd be very
apt to like, I'm the real, open-hearted man. I mayn't
look it, but I am indeed."

The child began to be alarmed.

" Short's very well, and seems kind," resumed the
misanthrope, " but he overdoes it. Now I don't."

Certainly if there were any fault in Mr. Codlin's usual
deportment, it was that he rather underdid his kindness
to those about him, than overdid it. But the child was
puzzled, and could not tell what to say.

" Take my advice," said Codlin ; " don't ask me why, .
but take it. As long as you travel with us, keep as hear
me as you can. Don't offer to leave us — not on any ac-
count — but always stick to me and say that I'm your
friend. Will you bear that in mind, my dear, and always
say that it was me that was your friend ?"

" Say so where, — and when ? " inquired the child in-
nocently.

" Oh, nowhere in particular," replied Codlin, a little put

n8 v

out as it seemed by the question ; " I'm only anxious
that you should think me so, and do me justice. You
can't think what an interest I have in you. Why didn't
you tell me your little history — that about you and the
poor old gentleman ? I'm the best adviser that ever was,
and so interested in you — so much more interested than
Short. I think they're breaking up downstairs ; you
needn't tell Short, you know, that we've had this little
talk together. God bless you. Recollect the friend.
Codlin's the friend, not Short. Short's very well as far as
he goes, but the real friend is Codlin — not Short."

Eking out these professions with a number of benevo-
lent and protecting looks and great fervor of manner,
Thomas Codlin stole away on tiptoe, leaving the child in
a state of extreme surprise. She was still ruminating up-
on his curious behavior, when the floor of the crazy
stairs and landing cracked beneath the tread of the other
travelers who were passing to their beds. When they had
all passed, and the sound of their footsteps had died
away, one of them returned, and after a little hesitation
and rustling in the passage, as if he were doubtful what
door to knock at, knocked at hers.

"Yes ?" said the child from within.

" It's me — Short " — a voice called through the keyhole.
" I only wanted to say that we must be off early to-mor-
row morning, my dear, because unless we get the start of
the dogs and the conjurer, the villages won't be worth a
penny. You'll be sure to be stirring early and go with
us ? I'll call you."

The child answered in the affirmative, and returning
his "good night" heard him creep away. She felt some
uneasiness at the anxiety of these men, increased by the
recollection of their whispering together downstairs and
their slight confusion when she awoke, nor was she quite
free from a misgiving that they were not the fittest com-

H9

panions she could have stumbled on. Her uneasiness,
however, was nothing, weighed against her fatigue ; and
she soon forgot it in sleep.

Very early next morning Short fulfilled his promise, and
knocking softly at her door, entreated that she would get
up directly, as the proprietor of the dogs was still snor-
ing, and if they lost no time they might get a good deal
in advance both of him and the conjurer, who was talking
in his sleep, and from what he could be heard .to say,
appeared to be balancing a donkey in his dreams. She
started from her bed without delay, and roused the old
man with so much expedition that they were both ready
as soon as Short himself, to that gentleman's unspeakable
gratification and relief.

After a very unceremonious and scrambling breakfast,
of which the staple commodities were bacon and bread,
they took leave of the landlord and issued from the
door of the Jolly Sandboys. The morning was fine and
warm, the ground cool to the feet after the late rain, the
hedges gayer and more green, the air clear, and every-
thing fresh and healthful. Surrounded by these in-
fluences, they walked on pleasantly enough.

They had not gone very far, when the child was again
struck by the altered behavior of Mr. Thomas Codlin,
who instead of plodding on sulkily by himself as he had
theretofore done, kept close to her, and when he had an
opportunity of looking at her unseen by his companion,
warned her by certain wry faces and jerks of the head not
to put any trust in Short, but to reserve all confidences
for Codlin. Neither did he confine himself to looks and
gestures, for when she and her grandfather were walking on
beside the aforesaid Short, and that little man was talking
with his accustomed, cheerfulness on a variety of indiffer-
ent subjects, Thomas Codlin testified his jealousy and dis-
trust by following close at her heels, and occasionally ad-

120

monishing her ankles with the legs of the theater in a
very abrupt and painful manner.

All these proceedings naturally made the child more
watchful and suspicious, and she soon observed that
whenever they halted to perform outside a village ale-
house or other place, Mr. Codlin while he went through
his share of the entertainments kept his eye steadily on
her and the old man, or with a show at great friendship
and consideration invited the latter to lean upon his arm,
and so held him tight until the representation was over
and they again went forward. Even Short seemed to
change in this respect, and to mingle with his good nature
something' of a desire to keep them in safe custody.
This increased the child's misgivings, and made her yet
more anxious and uneasy.

Meanwhile, they were drawing near the town where
the races were to begin next day ; for, from passing nu-
merous groups of gypsies and trampers on the road, wend-
ing their way towards it, and straggling out from every
by-way and cross-country lane, they gradually fell into a
stream of people, some walking by the side of covered
carts, others with horses, others with donkeys, others
toiling on with heavy loads upon their backs, but all tend-
ing to the same point. The public houses by the wayside,
from being empty and noiseless as those in the remoter
parts had been, now sent out boisterous shouts and clouds
of smoke ; and, from the misty windows, clusters of
broad red faces looked down upon the road. On every
piece of waste or common ground, some small gambler
drove his noisy trade, and bellowed to the idle passers-by
to stop and try their chance ; the crowd grew thicker
and more noisy ; gilt gingerbread in blanket stalls ex-
posed its glories to the dust ; and often a four-horse car-
riage, dashing by, obscured all objects in the gritty cloud
it raised, and left them, stunned and blinded, far behind.

121

It was dark before they reached the town itself, and
long indeed the few last miles had been. Here all was
tumult and confusion ; the streets were filledwith throngs
of people — many strangers were there, it seemed, by the
looks they cast about — the church bells rang out their
noisy peals, and flags streamed from windows and house
tops. In the large inn yards waiters flitted to and fro
and ran against each other, horses clattered on the un-
even stones, carriage steps fell rattling down, and sicken-
ing smells from many dinners came in a heavy lukewarm
breath upon the sense. In the smaller public houses,
fiddlers with all their might and main were squeaking out
the tune to staggering feet ; vagabond groups assembled
round the doors to see the stroller woman dance, and add
their uproar to the shrill flageolet and deafening drum.

Through this delirious scene the child, frightened and
repelled by all she saw, led on her bewildered charge,
clinging close to her conductor, and trembling lest in the
press she should be separated from him and left to find
her way alone. Quickening their steps to get clear of all
the roar and riot, they at length passed through the town
and made for the race course, which was upon an open
heath, situated on an eminence, a full mile distant from its
furthest bounds.

Although there were many people here, none of the
best favored or best clad, busily erecting tents and driv-
ing stakes into the ground, and hurrying to and fro with
dusty feet and many a grumbled oath — although there
were tired children cradled on heaps of straw between
the wheels of carts, crying themselves to sleep — and poor
lean horses and donkeys just turned loose, grazing among
the men and women, and pots and kettles, and half-lighted
fires, and ends of candles flaring and wasting in the air —
for all this, the Child felt it an escape from the town and
drew her breath more freely. After a scanty supper, the

122

purchase of which reduced her little stock so low, that
she had only a few half-pence with which to buy a break-
fast on the morrow, she and the old man lay down to rest
in a corner of a tent, and slept, despite the busy prepara-
tions that were going on around them all night long.

And now they had come to the time when they must
beg their bread. Soon after sunrise in the morning she
stole out from the tent, and rambling into some fields at
a short distance, plucked a few wild roses and such hum-
ble flowers, purposing to make them into little nosegays
and offer them to the ladies in the carriages when the
company arrived. Her thoughts were not idle while she
was thus employed ; when she returned and was seated
beside the old man in one corner of the tent, tying her
flowers together, while the two men lay dozing in another
corner, she plucked him by the sleeve, and slightly glanc-
ing towards them, said in a low voice —

" Grandfather, don't look at those I talk of, and don't
seem as if I spoke of anything but what I am about.
What was that you told me before we left the old house ?
That if they knew what we were going to do, they would
say that you were mad, and part us ? "

The old man turned to her with an aspect of wild terror ;
but she checked him by a look, and bidding him hold
some flowers while she tied them up, and so bringing her
lips closer to his ear, said —

" I know that was what you told me. You needn't
speak, dear. I recollect it very well. It was not likely
that I should forget it. Grandfather, these men suspect
that we have secretly left our friends, and mean to carry
us before some gentleman and have us taken care of and
sent back. If you let your hand tremble so, we can never
get away from them, but if you're only quiet now, we
shall do so, easily."

" How ? " muttered the old man, " Dear Nelly, how ?

123

They will shut me up in a stone room, dark and cold,
and chain me up to the wall, Nell — flog me with whips,
and never let me see thee more ! "

" You're trembling again," said the child. " Keep close
to me all day. Never mind them, don't look at them, but
me. I shall find a time when we can steal away. When
I do, mind you come with me, and do not stop or speak a
word. Hush ! That's all."

" Halloa ! what are you up to, my dear ? " said Mr.
Codlin, raising his head, and yawning. Then observing
that his companion was fast asleep, he added in an earnest
whisper, "Codlin's the friend, remember — not Short."

" Making some nosegays," the child replied ; " I am
going to try and sell some, these three days of the races.
Will you have one — as a present I mean ? "

Mr. Codlin would have risen to receive it, but the child
hurried towards him and placed it in his hand. He
stuck it in his buttonhole with an air of ineffable com-
placency for a misanthrope, and leering exultingly at the
unconscious Short, muttered, as he laid himself down
again, " Tom Codlin's the friend ! "

As the morning wore oh, the tents assumed a gayer
and more brilliant appearance, and long lines of carriages
come rolling softly on the turf. Men who had lounged
about all night in smock frocks and leather leggings, came
out in silken vests and hats and plumes, as jugglers or
mountebanks ; or in gorgeous liveries as soft-spoken
servants at gambling booths ; or in sturdy yeoman 'dress
as decoys at unlawful games. Black-eyed gypsy girls,,
hooded in showy handkerchiefs, sallied forth to tell for-
tunes, and pale slender women with consumptive faces
lingered upon the footsteps of ventriloquists and con-
jurers, and counted the sixpences with anxious eyes long
before they were gained. As many of the children as
could be kept within bounds, were stowed away, with aU

124

the other signs of dirt and poverty, among the donkeys,
carts, and horses ; and as many as could not be thus dis-
posed of ran in and out in all intricate spots, crept between
people's legs and carriage wheels, and came forth un-
harmed from under horses' hoofs. The dancing dogs,
the stilts, the little /ady and the tall man, and all the
other attractions, with organs out of number and bands
innumerable, emerged from the holes and corners in
which they had passed the night, and nourished boldly in
the sun.

Along the uncleared course, Short led his party, sound-
ing the brazen trumpet and revelling in the voice of
Punch ; and at his heels went Thomas Codlin, bearing
the show as usual, and keeping his eye on Nelly and her
grandfather, as they rather lingered in the rear. The child
bore upon her arm the little basket with her flowers, and
sometimes stopped, with timid and modest looks, to offer
them at some gay carriage ; but alas ! there were many
bolder beggars there, gypsies who promised husbands, and
other adepts in their trade, and although some ladies
smiled gently as they shook their heads, and others cried
to the jentlcmen beside them " See, what a pretty face ! "
they let the pretty face pass on, and never thought that
it looked tired or hungry.

There was but one lady who seemed to understand the
child, and she was one who sat alone in a handsone car-
riage, while two young men in dashing clothes, who had
just dismounted from it, talked and laughed loudly at a
little distance, appearing to forget her, quite. There were
many ladies all around, but they turned their backs, or
looked another way, or at the two young men (not un-
favorably at them), and left her to herself. She motioned
away a gypsy woman urgent to tell her fortune, saying
that it was told already and had been for some years, but
called the child towards her, and taking her flowers put

125

money into her trembling hand, and bade her go home
and keep at home.

Many a time they went up and down those long, long
lines, seeing everything- but the horses and the race ;
when the bell rang to clear the course, going back to rest
among the carts and donkeys, and not coming out again
until the heat was over. Many a time, too, was Punch
displayed in full zenith of his humor, but all this while
the eye of Thomas Codlin was upon them, and to escape
without notice was impracticable.

At length, late in the day, Mr. Codlin pitched the show
in a convenient spot, and the spectators were soon in the
very triumph of the scene. The child, sitting down with
the old man close behind it, had been thinking how
strange it was that horses who were such fine honest
creatures should seem to make vagabonds of all the men
they drew about them, when a loud laugh at some ex-
temporaneous witticism of Mr. Short's, having allusion
to the circumstances of the day, roused her from her
meditation and caused her to look around.

If they were ever to get away unseen, that was the very
moment. Short was plying the quarterstaves vigorously
and knocking the characters in the fury of the combat
against the sides of the show, the people were looking on
with laughing faces, and Mr. Codlin had relaxed into a
grim smile as his roving eye detected hands going into
waistcoat pockets and groping secretly for sixpences. If
they were ever to get away unseen, that was the very
moment. They seized it, and fled.

They made a path through booths and carriages and
throngs of people, and never once stopped to look behind.
The bell was ringing and the course was cleared by the
time they reached the ropes, but they dashed across it in-
sensible to the shouts and screeching that assailed them
for breaking in upon its sanctity, and creeping under the

126

brow of the hill at a quick pace, made for the open
fields.

CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH.

Day after day as he bent his steps homeward, returning
from some new effort to procure employment, Kit raised
his eyes to the window of the little room he had so much
commended to the child, and hoped to see some indica-
tion of her presence. His own earnest wish, coupled with
the assurance he had received from Quilp, filled him with
the belief that she would yet arrive to claim the humble
shelter he had offered, and from the death of each day's
hope, another hope sprang up to live to-morrow.

" I think they must certainly come to-morrow, eh,
mother ? " said Kit, laying aside his hat with a weary air
and sighing as he spoke. " They have been gone a week.
They surely couldn't stop away more than a week, could
they now ? "

The mother shook her head, and reminded him how
often he had been disappointed already.

" For the matter of that," said Kit, " you speak true
and sensible enough, as you always do, mother. Still, I
do consider that a week is quite long enough for 'em to
be rambling about ; don't you say so ? "

" Quite long enough, Kit, longer than enough, but they
may not come back for all that."

Kit was for a moment disposed to be vexed by this
contradiction, and not the less so from having anticipated
it in his own mind and knowing how just it was. But the
impulse was only momentary, and the vexed look became
a kind one before it had crossed the room.

" Then what do you think, mother, has become of 'em ?
You don't think they've gone to sea, anyhow ? ''

127

" Not gone for sailors, certainly," returned the mother
with a smile. " But I can't help thinking that they have
gone to some foreign country."

" I say," cried Kit with a rueful face, " don't talk like
that, mother."

" I am afraid they have, and that's the truth," she said.
"It's the talk of all the neighbors, and there are some
even that know of their having been seen on board ship,
and can tell you the name of the place they've gone to,
which is more than I can, my dear, for it's a very hard
one."

" I don't believe it," said Kit. " Not a word of it. A
set of idle chatterboxes, how should they know ! "

" They may be wrong of course," returned the mother,
" I can't tell about that, though I don't think it's at all
unlikely that they're in the right, for the talk is that the
old gentleman had put by a little money that nobody
knew of, not even that ugly little man you talk to me
about — what's his name — Quilp ; and that he and Miss
Nell have gone to live abroad where it can't be taken
from them, and they will never be disturbed. That don't
seem very far out of the way now, do it ? "

Kit scratched his head mournfully, in reluctant admis-
sion that it did not, and clambering up to the old nail took
down the cage and set himself to clean it and to feed the
bird. His thoughts reverting from his occupation to the
little old gentleman who had given him the shilling, he
suddenly recollected that that was the very day — nay,
nearly the very hour — at which the little old gentleman
had said he should be at the notary's house again. He
no sooner remembered this, than he hung up the cage
with great precipitation, and hastily explaining the nature
of his errand, went off at full speed to the appointed
place.

It was some two minutes after the time when he

128

reached the spot, which was a considerable distance from
his home, but by great good luck the little old gentleman
had not yet arrived ; at least there was no pony chaise
to be seen, and it was not likely that he had come and
gone again in so short a space. Greatly relieved to find
that he was not too late, Kit leaned against a lamp post to
take breath, and waited the advent of the pony and his
charge.

Sure enough, before long the pony came trotting round
the corner of the street, looking as obstinate as a pony
might, and picking his steps as if he were spying about
for the cleanest places, and would by no means dirty his
feet or hurry himself inconveniently. Behind the pony
sat the little old gentleman, and by the old gentleman's
side sat the little old lady, carrying just such a nosegay
as she had brought before.

The old gentleman, the old lady, the pony, and the
chaise, came up the street in perfect unanimity, until they
arrived within some half a dozen doors of the notary's
house, when the pony, deceived by a brass plate beneath
a tailor's knocker, came to a halt, and maintained by a
sturdy silence, that that was the house they wanted.

" Now, Sir, will you have the goodness to go on ; this
is not the place," said the old gentleman.

The pony looked with great attention into a fire plug
which was near him, and appeared to be quite absorbed in
contemplating it.

" Oh dear, such a naughty Whisker ! " cried the old
lady. " After being so good too, and coming along so
well ! I am quite ashamed of him. I don't know what
we are to do with him, I really don't."

The pony having thoroughly satisfied himself as to the
nature and properties of the fire plug, looked into the air
after his old enemies the flies, and as there happened to
be one of them tickling his ear at that moment he 'shook

129

his head and whisked his tail, after which he appeared
full of thought but quite comfortable and collected. The
old gentleman, having exhausted his powers of persuasion,
alighted to lead him ; whereupon the pony, perhaps
because he held this to be a sufficient concession, perhaps
because he happened to catch sight of the other brass
plate, or perhaps because he was in a spiteful humor,
darted off with the old lady and stopped at the right
house, leaving the old gentleman to come panting on
behind.

It was then that Kit presented himself at the pony's
head, and touched his hat with a smile.

" Why, bless me," cried the old gentleman, " the lad is
here ! My dear, do you see ? "

" I said I'd be here, Sir," said Kit, patting Whisker's
neck. " I hope you've had a pleasant ride, Sir. He's a
very nice little pony."

" My dear," said the old gentleman. " This is an
uncommon lad ; a good lad, I'm sure."

" I'm sure he is," rejoined the old lady. " A very good
lad, and I am sure he is a good son."

Kit acknowledged these expressions of confidence by
touching his hat again and blushing very much. The old
gentleman then handed the old lady out, and after look-
ing at him with an approving smile, they went into the
house — talking about him as they went, Kit could not
help feeling. Presently Mr. Witherden, smelling very
hard at the nosegay, came to the window and looked at
him and after that Mr. Abel came and looked at him, and
after that the old gentleman and lady came and looked at
him again, and after that they all came and looked at him
together, which Kit, feeling very much embarrassed by,
made a pretense of not observing. Therefore he patted
the pony more and more ; and this liberty the pony most
handsomely permitted.

Little Nell. — 9.

*3o

The faces had not disappeared from the window many
moments, when Mr. Chuckster in his official coat, and
with his hat hanging on his head just as it happened to
fall from its peg, appeared upon the pavement, and tell-
ing him he was wanted inside, bade him go in and he
would mind the chaise the while. In giving him this
direction Mr. Chuckster remarked that he wished he
might be blessed if he could make out whether he (Kit)
was "precious raw " or "precious deep," but intimated
by a distrustful shake of the head, that he inclined to the
latter opinion.

Kit entered the office in a great tremor, for he was not
used to going among strange ladies and gentlemen, and
the tin boxes and bundles of dusty papers had in his eyes
an awful and venerable air. Mr. Witherden too was a
bustling gentleman who talked loud and fast, and all eyes
were upon him, and he was very shabby.

" Well, boy," said Mr. Witherden, " you came to work
out that shilling ; — not to get another, hey ? "

" No indeed, Sir," replied Kit, taking courage to look
up. " I never thought of such a thing."

" Father alive ? " said the notary.

" Dead, Sir."

"Mother?"

"Yes, Sir."

" Married again — eh ? "

Kit made answer, not without some indignation, that
she was a widow with three children, and that as to her
marrying again, if the gentleman knew her he wouldn't
think of such a thing. At this reply Mr. Witherden
buried his nose in the flowers again, and whispered be-
hind the nosegay to the old gentleman that he believed
the lad was as honest a lad as need be.

" Now," said Mr. Garland when they had made some
further inquiries of him, " I am not going to give you
anything — "

I3i

"Thank you, Sir," Kit replied ; and quite seriously too,
for this announcement seemed to free him from the suspi-
cion which the notary had hinted.

" — But," resumed the old gentleman, " perhaps I may
want to know something more about you, so tell me
where you live and I'll put it down in my pocketbook."

Kit told him, and the old gentleman wrote down the
address with his pencil. He had scarcely done so, when
there was a great uproar in the street, and the old lady
hurrying to the window cried that Whisker had run away,
upon which Kit darted out to the rescue, and the others
followed.

It seemed that Mr. Chuckster had been standing with
his hands in his pockets looking carelessly at the pony,
and occasionally insulting him with such admonitions as
"Stand still,"— " Be quiet,"— " Woa-a-a," and the like,
which by a pony of spirit cannot be borne. Consequently,
the pony being deterred by no considerations of duty or
obedience, and not having before him the slightest fear
of the human eye, had at length started off, and was at
that moment rattling down the street, — Mr. Chuckster,
with his hat off and a pen behind his ear, hanging on in
the rear of the chaise and making futile attempts to draw
it the other way, to the unspeakable admiration of all be-
holders. Even in running away, however, Whisker was
perverse, for he had not gone very far when he suddenly
stopped, and before assistance could be rendered, com-
menced backing at nearly as quick a pace as he had gone
forward. By these means Mr. Chuckster was pushed and
hustled to the office again, in a most inglorious manner,
and arrived in a state of great exhaustion and discom-
fiture.

The old lady then stepped into her seat, and Mr. Abel
(whom they had come to fetch) into his. The old gentle-
man, after reasoning with the pony on the extreme impro-

132

priety of his conduct, and making the best amends in his
power to Mr. Chuckster, took his place also, and they
drove away, waving a farewell to the notary and his clerk,
and more than once turning to nod kindly to Kit as he
watched them from the road.

CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH.

Kit turned away and very soon forgot the pony, and
the chaise, and the little old lady, and the little old gen-
tleman, and the little young gentleman to boot, in think-
ing what could have become of his late master and his
lovely grandchild, who were the fountain head of all his
meditations. Still casting about for some plausible means
of accounting for their nonappearance, and of persuad-
ing himself that they must soon return, he bent his steps
towards home, intending to finish the task which the sud-
den recollection of his contract had interrupted, and then
to sally forth once more to seek his fortune for the day.

When he came to the corner of the court in which he
lived, lo and behold there was the pony again ! Yes,
there he was, looking more obstinate than ever ; and
alone in the chaise, keeping a steady watch upon his
every wink, sat Mr. Abel, who, lifting up his eyes by
chance and seeing Kit pass by, nodded to him as though
he would have nodded his head off.

Kit wondered to see the pony again, so near his own
home too, but it never occurred to him for what purpose
the pony might have come there, or where the old lady
and the old gentleman had gone, until he lifted the latch
of the door, and walking in, found them seated in the
room in conversation with his mother, at which unex-
pected sight he pulled off his hat and made his best bow
in some confusion.

133

" We are here before you, you see, Christopher," said
Mr. Garland smiling.

" Yes, Sir," said Kit ; and as he said it he looked
towards his mother for an explanation of the visit.

" The gentleman's been kind enough, my dear," said
she, in reply to this mute interrogation, " to ask me
whether you were in a good place, or in any place at all,
and when I told him no, you were not in any, he was so
good as to say that — "

" That we wanted a good lad in our house," said the old
gentleman and the old lady both together, " and that per-
haps we might think of it, if we found everything as we
would wish it to be."

As this thinking of it plainly meant the thinking of en-
gaging Kit, he immediately partook of his mother's
anxiety and fell into a great flutter ; for the little old
couple were very methodical and cautious, and asked so
many questions that he began to be afraid there was no
chance of his success.

" You see, my good woman,'' said Mrs. Garland to Kit's
mother, " that it's necessary to be very careful and par-
ticular in such a matter as this, for we're only three in
family, and are very quiet regular folks, and it would be a
sad thing if we made any kind of mistake, and found
things different from what we hoped and expected."

To this, Kit's mother replied, that certainly it was quite
true, and quite right, and quite proper, and Heaven for-
bid that she shoufii shrink, or have cause to shrink, from
any inquiry into her character or that of her son, who was
a very good son though she was his mother, in which re-
spect, she was bold to say, he took after his father, who
was not only a good son to his mother, but the best of
husbands and the best of fathers besides, which Kit could
and would corroborate she knew, and so would little
Jacob and the baby likewise if they were old enough,

134

which unfortunately they were not, though as they didn't
know what a loss they had had, perhaps it was a great
deal better that they should be as young as they were ;
and so Kit's mother wound up a long story by wiping her
eyes with her apron, and patting little Jacob's head, who
was rocking the cradle and staring with all his might at
the strange lady and gentleman.

When Kit's mother had done speaking, the old lady
struck in again, and said that she was quite sure she was
a very honest and very respectable person or she never
would have expressed herself in that manner, and that
certainly the appearance of the children and the cleanli-
ness of the house deserved great praise and did her the
utmost credit, whereat Kit's mother dropped a courtesy
a,nd became consoled. Lastly, inquiry was made into
the nature and extent of Kit's wardrobe, and a small ad-
vance being made to improve the same, he was formally
hired at an annual income of six pounds, over and above
his board and lodging, by Mr. and Mrs. Garland, of Abel
Cottage, Finchley.

It would be difficult to say which party appeared most
pleased with this arrangment, the conclusion of which
was hailed with nothing but pleasant looks and cheerful
smiles on both sides. It was settled that Kit should re-
pair to his new abode on the next day but one, in the
morning ; and finally, the little old couple, after -bestow-
ing a bright half-crown on little Jacob and another on the
baby, took their leaves ; being escorted fe far as the street
by their new attendant, who held the obdurate pony by
the bridle while they took their seats, and saw them drive
away with a lightened heart.

" Well, mother," said Kit, hurrying back into the house,
" I think my fortune's about made now."

" I should think it was indeed, Kit," rejoined his
mother. " Six pound a year ! Only think ! "

135

" Ah ! " said Kit, trying to maintain the gravity which
the consideration of such a sum demanded, but grinning
with delight in spite of himself. " There's a property ! "

Kit drew a long breath when he had said this, and put-
ting his hands deep into his pockets as if there were one
year's wages at least in each, looked at his mother, as
though he saw through her, and down an immense per-
spective of sovereigns beyond.

" Please God we'll make such a lady of you for Sun-
days, mother ! such a scholar of Jacob, such a child of
the baby, such a room of the one upstairs ! Six pound a
year ! "

CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH.

The remainder of that day and the whole of the next
were a busy time for the« Nubbles family, to whom every-
thing connected with Kit's outfit and departure was
matter of as great moment as if he had been about to
penetrate into the interior of Africa, or to take a cruise
round the world. It would be difficult to suppose that
there ever was a box which was opened and shut so many
times within four-and-twenty hours, as that which con-
tained his wardrobe and necessaries ; and certainly there
never was one which to two small eyes presented such a
mine of clothing, as this mighty chest with its three shirts
and proportionate allowance of stockings and pocket
handkerchiefs, disclosed to the astonished vision of little
Jacob. At last it was conveyed to the carrier's, at whose
house at Finchley Kit was to find it next day ; and the
box being gone, there remained but two questions for
consideration : firstly, whether the carrier would lose, or
dishonestly feign to lose, the box upon the road ; and

I3 6

secondly, whether Kit's mother perfectly understood how
to take care of herself in the absence of her son.

" I don't think there's hardly a chance of his really los-
ing it, but carriers are under great temptation to pretend
they lose things, no doubt," said Mrs. Nubbles apprehen-
sively, in reference to the first point.

" No doubt about it," returned Kit, with a serious look ;
" upon my word, mother, I don't think it was right to
trust it to itself. Somebody ought to have gone with , it,
I'm afraid."

" We can't help it now," said his mother ; " but it was
foolish and wrong. People oughtn't to be tempted."

Kit inwardly resolved that he would never tempt a
carrier any more, save with an empty box ; and hav-
ing formed this Christian determination, he turned his
thoughts to the second question.

" You know you must keep up your spirits, mother,
and not be lonesome because I'm not at home. I shall
very often be able to look in when I come into town I
dare say, and I shall send you a letter sometimes, and
when the quarter comes round, I can get a holiday of
course ; and then see if we don't take little Jacob to the
play, and let him know what oysters means."

With more kisses, and hugs, and tears, than many
young gentlemen who start upon their travels, and leave
well-stocked homes behind them, would deem within the
bounds of probability (if matter so low could be herein set
down), Kit left the house at an early hour next morning,
and set out to walk to Finchley.

Lest anybody should feel a curiosity to know how Kit
was clad, it may be briefly remarked that he wore no
livery, but was dressed in a coat of pepper-and-salt with
waistcoat of canary color, and nether garments of iron-
gray ; besides these glories, he shone in the luster of a
new pair of boots and an extremely stiff and shiny hat,

137

which on being struck anywhere with the knuckles
sounded like a drum. And in this attire, rather wonder-
ing that he attracted so little attention, and attributing
the circumstance to the insensibility of those who got up
early, he made his way towards Abel Cottage.

Without encountering any more remarkable adventure
on the road, than meeting a lad in a brimless hat, the ex-
act counterpart of his old one, on whom he bestowed half
the sixpence he possessed, Kit arrived in course of time
at the carrier's house, where, to the lasting honor of hu-
man nature, he found the box in safety. Receiving from
the wife of this immaculate man, a direction to Mr. Gar
land's, he took the box upon his shoulder and repaired
thither directly.

To be sure, it was a beautiful little cottage with a
thatched roof and little spires at the gable ends, and
pieces of stained glass in some of the windows, almost as
large as pocketbooks. On one side of the house was a
little stable, just the size for the pony, with a little room
over it, just the size for Kit. White curtains were flutter-
ing, and birds, in cages that looked as bright as if they
were made of gold, were singing at the windows ; plants
were arranged on either side of the path, and clustered
about the door ; and the garden was bright with flowers
in full bloom, which shed a sweet odor all round, and
had a charming and elegant appearance. Everything,
within the house and without, seemed to be the perfection
of neatness and order. In the garden there was not a
weed to be seen, and to judge from some dapper garden-
ing tools, a basket, and a pair of gloves which were lying
in one of the walks, old Mr. Garland had been at work in
it that very morning.

Kit looked about him, and admired, and looked again,
and this a great many times before he could make up his
mind to turn his head another way and ring the bell.

138

There was abundance of time to look about him again
though, when he had rung it, for nobody came, so after
ringing twice or thrice he sat down upon his box, and
waited.

He rang the bell a great many times, and yet nobody
came. But at last, as he was sitting upon the box think-
ing about giant's castles, and princesses tied up to pegs by
the hair of their heads, and dragons bursting out from be-
hind gates, and other incidents of the like nature, com-
mon in storybooks to youths of low degree on their first
visit to strange houses, the door was gently opened, and
a little servant girl, very tidy, modest, and demure, but
very pretty too, appeared.

" I suppose you're Christopher, Sir," said the servant
girl.

Kit got off the box, and said yes, he was.
" I'm afraid you've rung a good many times, perhaps,"
she rejoined, " but we couldn't hear you, because we've
been catching the pony."

Kit rather wondered what this meant, but as he couldn't
stop there, asking questions, he shouldered the box again
and followed the girl into the hall, where through a back
door he descried Mr. Garland leading Whisker in triumph
up the garden, after that self-willed pony had (as he after-
wards learned) dodged the family round a small paddock
in the rear, for one hour and three quarters.

The old gentleman received him very kindly and so did
the old lady, whose previous good opinion of him was
greatly enchanced by his wiping his boots on the mat
until the soles of his feet burnt again. He was then
taken into the parlor to be inspected in his new clothes ;
and when he had been surveyed several times, and had
afforded by his appearance unlimited satisfaction, he was
taken into the stable (where the pony received him with
uncommon complaisance) ; and thence into the little

139

chamber he had already observed, which was very clean
and comfortable ; and thence into the garden, in which
the old gentleman told him he would be taught to employ
himself, and where he told him, besides, what great things
he meant to do to make him comfortable, and happy, if he
found he deserved it. All these kindnesses Kit acknow-
ledged with various expressions of gratitude, and so many
touches of the new hat, that the brim suffered considera-
bly. When the old gentleman had said all he had to say
in the way of promise and advice, and Kit had said all he
had to say in the way of assurance and thankfulness, he
was handed over again to the old lady, who, summoning
the little servant girl (whose name was Barbara) instructed
her to take him downstairs and give him something to
eat and drink, after his walk.

Downstairs, therefore, Kit went ; and at the bottom of
the stairs there was such a kitchen as was never before
seen or heard of out of a toyshop window, with every-
thing in it as bright and glowing, and as precisely ordered,
too, as Barbara herself. And in this kitchen, Kit sat him-
self down at a table as white as a tablecloth, to eat cold
meat, and use his knife and fork the more awkwardly, be-
cause there was an unknown Barbara looking on and ob-
serving him.

It did not appear, however, that there was anything re-
markably tremendous about this strange Barbara, who
having lived a very quiet life, blushed very much and was
quite as embarrassed and uncertain what she ought to say
or do, as Kit could possibly be. When he had sat for
some little time, attentive to the ticking of the sober
clock, he ventured to glance curiously at the dresser, and
there, among the plates and dishes, were Barbara's little
workbox with a sliding lid to shut in the balls of cotton,
and Barbara's prayer book, and Barbara's hymn book,
and Barbara's Bible. Barbara's little looking-glass hung in

140

a good light near the window, and Barbara's bonnet was
on a nail behind the door. From all these mute signs
and tokens of her presence, he naturally glanced at Bar-
bara herself, who sat as mute as they, shelling peas into
a dish ; and just when Kit was looking at her eyelashes
and wondering — quite in the simplicity of his heart —
what color her eyes might be, it perversely happened
that Barbara raised her head a little to look at him,
when both pair of eyes were hastily withdrawn, and Kit
leaned over his plate, and Barbara over her pea shells,
each in extreme confusion at having been detected by the
other.

CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH.

It was not until they were quite exhausted and could
no longer maintain the pace at which they had fled from
the race ground, that the old man and the child ventured
to stop, and sit down to rest upon the borders of a little
wood. Here, though the course was hidden from their
view, they could yet faintly distinguish the noise of dis-
tant shouts, the hum of voices, and the beating of drums.
Climbing the eminence which lay between them and the
spot they had left, the child could even discern the flutter-
ing flags and white tops of booths ; but no person was ap-
proaching towards them, and their resting place was soli-
tary and still.

Some time elapsed before she could reassure her trem-
bling companion, or restore him to a state of moderate
tranquillity. His disordered imagination represented to
him a crowd of persons stealing towards them beneath
the cover of the bushes, lurking in every ditch, and peep-
ing from the boughs of every rustling tree. He was

Hi

haunted by apprehensions of being led captive to some
gloomy place where he would be chained and scourged,
and worse than all, where Nell could never come to see
him, save through iron bars and gratings in the wall.
His terrors affected the child. Separation from her
grandfather was the greatest evil she could dread ; and
feeling for the time as though, go where they would, they
were to be hunted down, and could never be safe but in
hiding, her heart failed her, and her courage drooped.

In one so young, and so unused to the scenes in which
she had lately moved, this sinking of the spirit was not
surprising. But, Nature often enshrines gallant and no-
ble hearts in weak bosoms — oftenest, God bless her, in
female breasts — and when the child, casting her tearful
eyes upon the old man, remembered how weak he was,
and how destitute and helpless he would be if she failed
him, her heart swelled within her, and animated her with
new strength and fortitude.

" We are quite safe now, and have nothing to fear in-
deed, dear grandfather," she said.

" Nothing to fear ! " returned the old man. " Nothing
to fear if they took me from thee ! Nothing to fear if
they parted us ! Nobody is true to me. No, not one.
Not even Nell ! "

"Oh ! do not say that," replied the child, "for if ever
anybody was true at heart, and earnest, I am. I am sure
you know I am."

" Then how," said the old man, looking fearfully round,
" how can you bear to think that we are safe, when they
are searching for me everywhere, and may come here, and
steal upon us, even while we're talking ? "

" Because I'm sure we have not been followed," said
the child. " Judge for yourself, dear grandfather ; look
round, and see how quiet and still it is. We are alone to-
gether, and may ramble where we like. Not safe ! Could

\H2 '

I feel easy — did I feel at ease — when any danger threat-
ened you ? "

" True, true," he answered, pressing her hand, but still
looking anxiously about. " What noise was that ? "

"A bird," said the child, "flying into the wood, and
leading the way for us to follow. You remember that we
said we would walk in woods and fields, and by the side
of rivers, and how happy we would be — you remember
that ? But here, while the sun shines above our heads,
and everything is bright and happy, we are sitting sadly
down, and losing time. See what a pleasant path ; and
there's the bird — the same bird — now he flies to another
tree, and stays to sing. Come ! "

When they rose up from the ground, and took the
shady track which led them through the wood, she
bounded on before, printing her tiny footsteps in the
moss, which rose elastic from so light a pressure and gave
it back as mirrors throw off breath ; and thus she lured
the old man on, with many a backward look and merry
beck, now pointing stealthily to some lone bird as it
perched and twittered on a branch that strayed across
their path, now stopping to listen to the songs that broke
the happy silence, or watch the sun as it trembled
through the leaves, and stealing in among the ivied trunks
of stout old trees, opened long paths of light. As they
passed onward, parting the boughs that clustered in their
way, the serenity which the child had first assumed stole
into her breast in earnest ; the old man cast no longer
fearful looks behind, but felt at ease and cheerful, for the
further they passed into the deep green shade, the more
they felt that the tranquil mind of God was there, and
shed its peace on them.

At length, the path becoming clearer and less intricate,
brought them to the end of the wood, and into a public
road. Taking their way along it for' a short distance,

> J43

they came to a lane, so shaded by the trees on either
hand that they met together overhead, and arched the
narrow way. A broken finger post announced that this
led to a village three miles off ; and thither they resolved
to bend their steps.

The miles appeared so long that they sometimes thought
they must have missed their road. But at last to their
great joy, it led downward in a steep descent, with over*-
hanging banks over which the footpaths led ; and the
clustered houses of the village peeped out from the
woody hollow below.

It was a very small place. The men and boys were
playing at cricket on the green ; and as the other folks
were looking on, they wandered up and down, uncertain
where to seek a humble lodging. There was but one old
man in the little garden before his cottage, and him they
were timid of approaching, for he was the schoolmaster,
and had "School" written up over his window in black
letters on a white board. He -was a pale, simple-looking
man, of a spare and meager habit, and sat among his flow-
ers and beehives, smoking his pipe, in the little porch be-
fore his door.

" Speak to him, dear," the old man whispered.

" I am almost afraid to disturb him," said the child tim-
idly. " He does not seem to see us. Perhaps if we wait
a little, he may look this way."

They waited, but the schoolmaster cast no look to-
wards them, and still sat, thoughtful and silent, in the
little porch. He had a kind face. In his plain old suit
of black, he looked pale and meager. They fancied, too,
a lonely air about him and his house, but perhaps that
was because the other people formed a merry company
upon the green, and he seemed the only solitary man in
all the place.

They were very tired, and the child would have been

144

bold enough to address even a schoolmaster, but for some-
thing in his manner which seemed to denote that he was
uneasy or distressed. As they stood hesitating at a little
distance, they saw that he sat for a few minutes at a time
like one in a brown study, then laid aside his pipe and
took a few turns in his garden, then approached the gate
and looked towards the green, then took up his pipe again
with a sigh, and sat down thoughtfully as before.

As nobody else appeared and it would soon be dark,
Nell at length took courage, and when he had resumed
his pipe and seat, ventured to draw near, leading her
grandfather by the hand. The slight noise they made in
raising the latch of the wicket gate, caught his attention.
He looked at them kindly but seemed disappointed, too,
and slightly shook his head.

Nell dropped a courtesy, and told him they were poor
travelers who sought a shelter for the night which they
would gladly pay for, so far as their means allowed. The
schoolmaster looked earnestly at her as she spoke, laid
aside his pipe, and rose up directly.

" If you could direct us anywhere, Sir," said the child,
" we should take it very kindly."

" You have been walking a long way," said the school-
master.

" A long way, Sir," the child replied.

" You're a young traveler, my child," he said, laying
his hand gently on her head. " Your grandchild, friend ? "

" Ay, Sir," cried the old man, " and the stay and com-
fort of my life."

" Come in," said the schoolmaster.

Without further preface he conducted them into his
little schoolroom, which was parlor and kitchen likewise,
and told them they were welcome to remain under his
roof till morning. Before they had done thanking him,
he spread a coarse white cloth upon the table, with knives

H5

and platters ; and bringing out some bread and cold
meat, besought them to eat.

The child looked round the room as she took her seat.
There were a couple of forms, notched and cut and inked
all over ; a small deal desk perched on four legs, at which
no doubt the master sat ; a few dog's-eared books upon a
high shelf ; and beside them a motley collection of peg
tops, balls, kites, fishing lines, marbles, half-eaten apples,
and other confiscated property of idle urchins. Dis-
played on hooks upon the wall in all their terrors, were
the cane and ruler ; and near them, on a small shelf of its
own, the dunce's cap, made of old newspapers and dec-
orated with glaring wafers of the largest size. But, the
great ornaments of the walls were certain moral sentences
fairly copied in good round text, and well-worked sums
in simple addition and multiplication, evidently achieved
by the same hand, which were plentifully pasted all round
the room : for the double purpose, as it seemed, of bear-
ing testimony to the excellence of the school, and kindling
a worthy emulation in the bosoms of the scholars.

" Yes," said the old schoolmaster, observing that her
attention was caught by these latter specimens. " That's
beautiful writing, my dear."

" Very, Sir," replied the child modestly, " is it yours ? "

" Mine ! " he returned, taking out his spectacles and
putting them on, to have a better view of the triumphs so
dear to his heart, "/couldn't write like that, now-a-days.
No. They're all done by one hand ; a little hand it is,
not so old as yours, but a very clever one."

As the schoolmaster said this, he saw that a small blot
of ink had been thrown on one of the copies, so he took a
penknife from his pocket, and going up to the wall, care-
fully scraped it out. When he had finished, he walked
slowly backward from the writing, admiring it as one
might contemplate a beautiful picture, but with some-

Little Nell.—\a.

146

thing of sadness in his voice and manner which quite
touched the child, though she was unacquainted with its
cause.

"A little hand indeed," said the poor schoolmaster.
" Far beyond all his companions, in his learning and his
sports too, how did he ever come to be so fond of me !
That I should love him is no wonder, but that he should
love me — " and there the schoolmaster stopped, and took
off his spectacles to wipe them, as though they had grown
dim.

" I hope there is nothing the matter, Sir," said Nell
anxiously.

" Not much, my dear," returned the schoolmaster. " I
hoped to have seen him on the green to-night. He was
always foremost among them. But he'll be there to-
morrow."

" Has he been ill ? " asked the child, with a child's quick
sympathy.

" Not very. They said he was wandering in his head
yesterday, dear boy, and so they said the day before.
But that's a part of that kind of disorder ; it's not a bad
sign — not at all a bad sign."

The child was silent. He walked to the door, and
looked wistfully out. The shadows of night were gather-
ing, and all was still.

" If he could lean upon anybody's arm, he would come
to me, I know," he said, returning into the room. " He
always came into the garden to say good night. But
perhaps his illness has only just taken a favorable turn,
and it's too late for him to come out, for it's very damp
and there's a heavy dew. It's much better he shouldn't
come to-night."

The schoolmaster lighted a candle, fastened the win-
dow shutter, and closed the door. But after he had done
this, and sat silent a little time, he took down his hat,

147

and said he would go and satisfy himself, if Nell would
sit up till he returned. The child readily complied, and
he went out.

She sat there half an hour or more, feeling the place
very strange and lonely, for she had prevailed upon the
old man to go to bed, and there was nothing to be heard
but the ticking of an old clock, and the whistling of the
wind among the trees. When he returned, he took his
seat in the chimney corner, but remained silent for a
long time. At length he turned to her, and speaking
very gently, hoped she would say a prayer that night for
a sick child.

"My favorite scholar !" said the poor schoolmaster,
smoking a pipe he had forgotten to light, and looking
mournfully round about the walls. " It is a little hand to
have done all that, and waste away with sickness. It is a
very, very little hand ! "

CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH.

After a sound night's rest in a chamber in the
thatched roof, in which it seemed the sexton had for
some years been a lodger, but which he had lately
deserted for a wife and a cottage of his own, the child
rose early in the morning and descended to the room
where she had supped last night. As the schoolmaster
had already left his bed and gone out, she bestirred her-
self to make it neat and comfortable, and had just
finished its arrangement when the kind host returned.

He thanked her many times, and said that the old
dame who usually did such offices for him had gone to
nurse the little scholar whom he had told her of. The
child asked how he was, and hoped he was better.

148

" No," rejoined the schoolmaster shaking his head sor-
rowfully, " no better. They even say he is worse."

" I am very sorry for that, Sir," said the child.

The poor schoolmaster appeared to be gratified by her
earnest manner, but yet rendered more uneasy by it, for
he added hastily that anxious people often magnified an
evil and thought it greater than it was ; " for my part," he
said, in his quiet, patient way, " I hope it's not so. I
don't think he can be worse."

The child asked his leave to prepare breakfast, and
her grandfather coming downstairs, they all three par-
took of it together. While .the meal was in progress,
their host remarked that the old man seemed much
fatigued, and evidently stood in need of rest.

" If the journey you have before you is a long one," he
said, " and don't press you for one day, you're very wel-
come to pass another night here. I should really be glad
if you would, friend."

He saw that the old man looked at Nell, uncertain
whether to accept or decline his offer ; and added,

" I shall be glad to have your young companion with me
for one day. If you can do a charity to a lone man, and
rest yourself at the same time, do so. If you must pro-
ceed upon your journey, I wish you well through it, and
will walk a little way with you before school begins."

" What are we to do, Nell ? " said the old man irreso-
lutely, " say what we're to do, dear."

It required no great persuasion to induce the child to
answer that they had better accept the invitation and
remain. She was happy to show her gratitude to the
kind schoolmaster by busying herself in the performance
of such household duties as his little cottage stood in
need of. When these were done, she took some needle-
work from her basket, and sat herself down upon a stool
beside the lattice, where the honeysuckle and woodbine

149

entwined their tender stems, and stealing into the room
filled it with their delicious breath. Her grandfather
was basking in the sun outside, breathing the perfume of
the flowers, and idly watching the clouds as they floated
on before the light summer wind.

As the schoolmaster, after arranging the two forms in
due order, took his seat behind his desk and made other
preparations for school, the child was apprehensive that
she might be in the way, and offered to withdraw to her
little bedroom. But this he would not allow, and as he
seemed pleased to have her there, she remained, busying
herself with her work.

" Have you many scholars, Sir ? " she asked.

The poor schoolmaster shook his head, and said that
they barely filled the two forms.

" Are the others clever, Sir ? " asked the child, glancing
at the trophies on the wall.

" Good boys," returned the schoolmaster, " good boys
enough, my dear, but they'll never do like that."

A small, white-headed boy with a sunburnt face
appeared at the door while he was speaking, and stopping
there to make a rustic bow, came in and took his seat
upon one of the forms. The white-headed boy then put
an open book, astonishingly dog's-eared, upon his knees,
and thrusting his hands into his pockets began counting
the marbles with which they were filled, displaying in the
expression of his face a remarkable capacity of totally
abstracting his mind from the spelling on which his eyes
were fixed. Soon afterwards another white-headed little
boy came straggling in, and after him a red-headed lad,
and after him two more with white heads, and then one with
a flaxen poll, and so on until the forms were occupied by
a dozen boys or thereabouts, with heads of every color
but gray, and ranging in their ages from four years old
to fourteen years or more ; for the legs of the youngest

150

were a long way from the floor when he sat upon the
form, and the eldest was a heavy, good-tempered, foolish
fellow, about half a head taller than the schoolmaster.

At the top of the first form— the post of honor in the
school — was the vacant place of the little sick scholar,
and at the head of the row of pegs on which those who
came in hats or caps were wont to hang them up, one
was left empty. No boy attempted to violate the sanc-
tity of seat or peg, but many a one looked from the
empty spaces to the schoolmaster, and whispered his
idle neighbor behind his hand.

Then began the hum of conning over lessons and get-
ting them by heart, the whispered jest and stealthy game,
and all the noise and drawl of school ; and in the midst
of the din sat the poor schoolmaster, the very image of
meekness and simplicity, vainly attempting to fix his
mind upon the duties of the day, and to forget his little
friend. But the tedium of his office reminded him more
strongly of the willing scholar, and his thoughts were
rambling from his pupils — it was plain.

None knew this better than the idlest boys, who, grow-
ing bolder with impunity, waxed louder and more daring ;
playing odd or even under the master's eye, eating
apples openly and without rebuke, pinching each other
in sport or malice without the least" reserve, and cutting
their autographs in the very legs of his desk. The puz-
zled dunce, who stood beside it to say his lesson out of
book, looked no longer at the ceiling for forgotten words,
but drew closer to the master's elbow and boldly cast
his eye upon the page ; the wag of the little troop
squinted and made grimaces (at the smallest boy of
course), holding no book -before his face, and his approv-
ing audience knew no constraint in their delight. If the
master did chance to rouse himself and seem alive to
what was going on, the noise subsided for a moment and

no eyes met his but wore a studious and a deeply humble
look ; but the instant he relapsed again, it broke out
afresh, and ten times louder than before.

Oh ! how some of those idle fellows longed to be out-
side, and how they looked at the open door and window,
as if they half meditated rushing violently out, plunging
into the woods, and being wild boys and savages from
that time forth. What rebellious thoughts of the cool
river, and some shady bathing place beneath willow trees
with branches dipping in the water, kept tempting and
urging that sturdy boy, who, with his shirt collar unbut-
toned and flung back as far as it could go, sat fanning
his flushed face with a spelling book, wishing himself a
whale, or a tittlebat, or a fly, or anything but a boy at
school on that hot, broiling day ! Heat ! ask that other
boy, whose seat being nearest to the door'gave him oppor-
tunities of gliding out into the garden and driving his
companions to madness by dipping his face into the buc-
ket of the well and then rolling on the grass — ask him if
there were ever such a day as that, when even the bees
were diving deep down into the cups of flowers and -stop-
ping there, as if they had made up their minds to retire
from business and be manufacturers of honey no more.
The day was made for laziness, and lying on one's back
in green places, and staring at the sky till its brightness
forced one to shut one's eyes and go to sleep ; and was
this a time to be poring over musty books in a dark room,
slighted by the very sun itself ? Monstrous !

Nell sat by the window occupied with her work, but
attentive still to all that passed, though sometimes rather
timid of the boisterous boys. The lessons over, writing
time began ; and there being but one desk and that the
master's, each boy sat at it in turn and labored at his
crooked copy, while the master walked about. This was
a quieter time ; for he would come and look over the

152

writer's shoulder, and tell him mildly to observe how such,
a letter was turned in such a copy on the wall, praise
such an upstroke here and such a downstroke there, and
bid him take it for his model. Then he would stop and
tell them what the sick child had said last night, and how
he had longed to be among them once again ; and such
was the poor schoolmaster's gentle and affectionate
manner, that the boys seemed quite remorseful that they
had worried him so much, and were absolutely quiet ; eat-
ing no apples, cutting no names, inflicting no pinches, and
making no grimaces, for full two minutes afterwards.

" I think, boys," said the schoolmaster when the clock
struck twelve, " that I shall give an extra half-holiday
this afternoon."

At this intelligence, the boys, led on and headed by the
tall boy, raised a great shout, in the midst of which the
master was seen to speak, but could not be heard. As he
held up his hand, however, in token of his wish that they
should be silent, they were considerate enough to leave
off, as soon as the longest winded among them were quite
out of breath.

" You must promise me first," said the schoolmaster,
"that you'll not be noisy,' or at least, if you are, that
you'll go away and be so — away out of the village, I
mean. I'm sure you wouldn't disturb your old playmate
and companion."

There was a general murmur (and perhaps a very sin-
cere one, for they were but boys) in the negative ; and
the tall boy, perhaps as sincerely as any of them, called
those about him to witness that he had only shouted in a
whisper.

"Then pray don't forget, there's my dear scholars,"
said the schoolmaster, " what I have asked you, and do
it as a favor to me. Be as happy as you can, and don't
be unmindful that you are blessed with health, Good-bye
all!"

"S3

"Thank'ee, Sir," and "Good-bye, Sir," were said a
great many times in a variety of voices, and the boys
went out very slowly and softly. But there was the sun
shining and there were the birds singing, as the sun only
shines and the birds only sing on holidays and half-holi-
days ; there were the trees waving to all free boys to
climb and nestle among their leafy branches ; the hay, en-
treating them to come and scatter it to the pure air ; the
green corn, gently beckoning towards wood and stream ;
the smooth ground, rendered smoother still by blending
lights and shadows, inviting to runs and leaps, and long
walks God knows whither. It was more than boy could
bear, and with a joyous whoop the whole cluster took to
their heels and spread themselves about, shouting and
laughing as they went.

" It's natural, thank Heaven ! " said the poor school-
master looking after them. " I'm very glad they didn't
mind me ! "

Towards night an old woman came tottering up the
garden as speedily as she could, and meeting the school-
master at the door, said he was to go to Dame West's di-
rectly, and had best run on before her. He and the child
were on the point of going out together for a walk, and
without relinquishing her hand, the schoolmaster hurried
away, leaving the messenger to follow as she might.

They stopped at a cottage door and the schoolmaster
knocked softly at it with his hand. It was opened with-
out loss of time. They entered a room where a little
group of women were gathered about one, older than the
rest, who was crying very bitterly, and sat wringing her
hands and rocking herself to and fro.

" Oh dame ! '' said the schoolmaster, drawing near her
chair, " is it so bad as this ? "

" He's going fast," cried the old woman ; " my grand-
son's dying. It's all along of you. You shouldn't see

»54

him now, but for his being so earnest on it. This is what
his learning has brought him to. Oh dear, dear, dear,
what can I do ! "

" Do not say that I am in any fault," urged the gentle
schoolmaster. " I am not hurt, dame. No, no. You are
in great distress of mind, and don't mean what you say.
I am sure you don't."

The schoolmaster looked round upon the other women
as if to entreat some one among them to say a kind word
for him, but they shook their heads, and murmured
to each other that they never thought there was much
good in learning, and that this convinced them. Without
saying a word in reply, or giving them a look of reproach,
he followed the old woman who had summoned him (and
who had now rejoined them) into another room, where his
infant friend, half-dressed, lay stretched upon a bed.

He was a very young boy ; quite a little child. His
hair still hung in curls about his face, and his eyes were
very bright ; but their light was Of Heaven, not earth.
The schoolmaster took a seat beside him, and stooping
over the pillow, whispered his name. The boy sprang up,
stroked his face with his hand, and threw his wasted
arms around his neck, crying out that he was his dear,
kind friend.

" I hope I always was. I meant to be, God knows,"
said the poor schoolmaster.

" Who is that ? " said the boy, seeing Nell. " I am
afraid to kiss her, lest I should make her ill. Ask her to
shake hands with me."

The sobbing child came closer up, and took the little
languid hand in hers. Releasing his again after a time,
the sick boy laid him gently down.

"You remember the garden, Harry," whispered the
schoolmaster, anxious to rouse him, for a dullness seemed
gathering upon the child, " and how pleasant it used to

155

be in the evening time ? You must make haste to visit it
again, for I think the very flowers have missed you, and
are less gay than they used to be. You will come soon,
my dear, very soon now, — won't you ? "

The boy smiled faintly — so very, very faintly — and put
his hand upon his friend's gray head. He moved his lips
too, but no voice came from them ; no, not a sound.

In the silence that ensued, the hum of distant voices
borne upon the evening air came floating through the
open window. " What's that ? " said the sick child, open-
ing his eyes.

" The boys at play upon the green."

He took a handkerchief from his pillow, and tried to
wave it above his head. But the feeble arm dropped
powerless down.

" Shall I do it ? " said the schoolmaster.

" Please wave it at the window," was the faint reply.
" Tie it to the lattice. Some of them may see it there.
Perhaps they'll think of me, and look this way.''

He raised his head, and glanced from the fluttering
signal to his idle bat, that lay with slate and book and
other boyish property upon a table in the room. And
then he laid him softly down once more, and asked if the
little girl were there, for he could not see her.

She stepped forward, and pressed the passive hand that
_ lay upon the coverlet. The two old friends and compan-
ions — for such they were, though they were man and
child — held each other in a long embrace, and then the
little scholar turned his face towards the wall, and fell
asleep.

The poor schoolmaster sat in the same place, holding
the small cold hand in his, and chafing it. It was but the
hand of a dead child. He felt that ; and yet he chafed it
still and could not lay it down.

i$6

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST.

Almost broken-hearted, Nell withdrew with the school-
master from the bedside and returned to his cottsge. In
the midst of her grief and tears she was yet careful to
conceal their real cause from the old man, for the dead
boy had been a grandchild, and left but one aged relative
to mourn his premature decay.

She stole away to bed as quickly as she could, and when
she was alone, gave free vent to the sorrow with which
her breast was overcharged. But the sad scene she had
witnessed was not without its lesson of content and
gratitude ; of content with the lot which left her health
and freedom ; and gratitude that she- was spared to the
one relative and friend she loved, and to live and move
in a beautiful world, when so many young creatures — as
young and full of hope as she — were stricken down and
gathered to their graves.

Her dreams were of the little scholar : not coffined and
covered up, but mingling with angels, and smiling happily.
The sun darting his cheerful rays into the room, awoke
her ; and now there remained but to take leave of the
poor schoolmaster and wander forth once more.

By the time they were ready to depart, school had be-
gun. In the darkened room, the din of yesterday was
going on again : a little sobered and softened down, per-
haps, but only a very little, if at all. The schoolmaster
rose from his desk and walked with them to the gate.

It was with a trembling and reluctant hand, that the
child held out to him the money which the lady had given
her at the races for her flowers : faltering in her thanks
as she thought how small the sum was, and blushing as
she offered it. . But he bade her put it up, and stooping
lo kiss her cheek, turned back into his house.

I 4

J

They had not gone half a dozen paces when he was at
the door again ; the old man retraced his steps to shake
hands, and the child did the same.

" Good fortune and happiness go with you ! " said the
poor schoolmaster. " I am quite a solitary man now. If
you ever pass this way again, you'll not forget the little
village school."

" We shall never forget it, Sir," rejoined Nell ; " nor
ever forget to be grateful to you for your kindness to us."

" I have heard such words from the lips of children
very often," said the schoolmaster, shaking his head, and
smiling thoughtfully, " but they were soon forgotten. I
had attached one young friend to me, the better friend
for being young — but that's over — God bless you ! "

They bade him farewell very many times, and turned
away, walking slowly and often looking back, until they
could see him no more. At length they had left the vil-
lage far behind, and even lost sight of the smoke among
the trees. They trudged onward now, at a quicker pace,
resolving to keep the main road, and go wherever it might
lead them.

But main roads stretch a long, long way. With the
exception of two or three inconsiderable clusters of cot-
tages which they passed, without stopping, and one lonely
roadside public house where they had some bread and
cheese, this highway had led them to nothing— late in the
afternoon— and still lengthened out, far in the distance,
the same dull, tedious, winding course, that they had
been pursuing all day. As they had no resource, how-
ever, but to go forward, they still kept on, though at a
much slower pace, being very weary and fatigued.

The afternoon had worn away into a beautiful even-
ing, when they arrived at a point where the road made
a sharp turn and struck across a common. On the bor-
der of this common, and close to the hedge which divided

i 5 8

it from the cultivated fields, a caravan was drawn up to
rest; upon which, by reason of its situation, they came so
suddenly that they could not have avoided it if they
would.

It was not a shabby, dingy, dusty cart, but a smart
little house upon wheels, with white dimity curtains fes-
tooning the windows, and window shutters of green picked
out with panels of a staring red, in which happily-
contrasted colors the whole concern shone brilliant.
Neither was it a poor caravan drawn by a single donkey
or emaciated horse, for a pair of horses in pretty good
condition were released from the shafts and grazing on
the frowzy grass. Neither was it a gypsy caravan, for at
the open door (graced with a bright brass knocker) sat a
Christian lady, stout and comfortable to look upon, who
wore a large bonnet trembling with bows. And that it
was not an unprovided or destitute caravan was clear
from this lady's occupation, which was the very pleasant
and refreshing one of taking tea. The tea things, and a
cold knuckle of ham, were set forth upon a drum, covered
with a white napkin ; and there, as if at the most con-
venient round table in all the world, sat this roving lady,
taking her tea and enjoying the prospect.

It happened that at that moment the lady of the car-
avan had her cup (which, that everything about her might
be of a stout and comfortable kind, was a breakfast cup)
to her lips, and that having her eyes lifted to the sky in
her enjoyment of the full flavor of the tea, it happened
that being thus agreeably engaged, she did not see the
travelers when they first came up. It was not until she
was in the act of setting down the cup, and drawing a
long breath after the exertion of causing its contents to
disappear, that the lady of the caravan beheld an old man
and a young child walking slowly by, and glancing at her
proceedings with eyes of modest but hungry admiration.

1 59

" Hey ! " cried the lady of the caravan, scooping the
crumbs out of her lap and swallowing the same before
wiping her lips, " Yes, to be sure — Who won the Helter-
Skelter Plate, child?"

" Won what, ma'am ? " asked Nell.

" The Helter-Skelter Plate at the races, child — the plate
that was run for on the second day."

" On the second day, ma'am ? "

" Second day ! Yes, second day," repeated the lady
with an air of impatience. " Can't you say who won the
Helter-Skelter Plate when you're asked the question
civilly?"

" I don't know, ma'am."

" Don't know ! " repeated the lady of the caravan ;
" why, you were there. I saw you with my own eyes."

Nell was not a little alarmed to hear this, supposing that
the lady might be intimately acquainted with the firm of
Short and Codlin ; but what followed tended to reassure
her.

" And very sorry I was," said the lady of the caravan,
" to see you in company with a Punch ; a low, practical,
wulgar wretch, that people should scorn to look at."

" I was not there by choice," returned the child; " we
didn't know our way, and the two men were very kind to
us, and let us travel with them. Do you — do you know
them, ma'am ? "

" Know 'em, child ! " cried the lady of the caravan in a
sort of shriek. " Know them / But you're young and in-
experienced, and that's your excuse for asking sich a
question. Do I look as if I know'd 'em, does the caravan
look as if it know'd 'em ? "

" No, ma'am, no," said the child, fearing she had com-
mitted some grevious fault. " I beg your pardon."

It was granted immediately, though the lady still ap-
peared m,uch ruffled and discomposed by the degrading

i6o

supposition. The child then explained that they had left
the races on the first day, and were traveling to the next
town on that road, where they purposed to spend the
night. As the countenance of the stout lady began to
clear up, she ventured to inquire how far it was. The re-
ply — which the stout lady did not come to, until she had
thoroughly explained that she went to the races on the
first day in a gig, and as an expedition of pleasure, and
that her presence there had no connection with any mat-
ters of business or profit — was, that the town was eight
miles off.

This discouraging information a little dashed the child,
who could scarcely repress a tear as she glanced along the
darkening road. Her grandfather made no complaint, but
he sighed heavily as he leaned upon his staff, and vainly
tried to pierce the dusty distance.

The lady of the caravan was in the act of gathering her
tea equipage together preparatory to clearing the table,
but noting the child's anxious manner she hesitated and
stopped. The child courtesied, thanked her for her infor-
mation, and giving her hand to the old man had already got
some fifty yards or so away, when the lady of the caravan
called to her to return.

" Come nearer, nearer still " — said she, beckoning tQ
her to ascend the steps. " Are you hungry, child ?"

" Not very, but we are tired, and it's — it is a long
way " —

" Well, hungry or not, you had better have some tea,"
rejoined her new acquaintance. " I suppose you are
agreeable to that, old gentleman ?"

The grandfather humbly pulled off his hat and thanked
her. The lady of the caravan then bade him come up the
steps likewise, but the drum proving an inconvenient
table for two, they descended again, and sat upon the
grass, where she handed down to them the tea tray, the

i6i

bread and butter, the knuckle of ham, and in short every-
thing of which she had partaken herself..

" Set 'em out near the hind wheels, child, that's the
best place " — said their friend, superintending the arrange-
ments from above. " Now hand up the teapot for a little
more hot water, and a pinch of fresh tea, and then both
of you eat and drink as much as you can, and don't spare
anything ; that's all I ask of you."

They might perhaps have carried out the lady's wish, if
it had been less freely expressed, or even if it had not
been expressed at all. But as this direction relieved them
from any shadow of delicacy or uneasiness, they made a
hearty meal and enjoyed it to the utmost.

While they were thus engaged, the lady of the caravan
alighted on the earth, and with her hands clasped behind
her, and her large bonnet trembling excessively, walked
up and down in a measured tread and very stately manner,
surveying the caravan from time to time with an air of
calm delight, and deriving particular gratification from the
red panels and the brass knocker. When she had taken
this gentle exercise for some time, she sat down upon the
steps and called " George ; " whereupon a man in a
carter's frock, who had been so shrouded in a hedge up to
this time as to see everything that passed without being
seen himself, parted the twigs that concealed him, and
appeared in a sitting attitude, supporting on his legs a
baking dish, and bearing in his right hand a knife, and in
his left a fork.

" Yes, Missus " — said George.

" How did you find the cold pie, George ? "

" It warn't amiss, Mum."

The lady of the caravan looked on approvingly for some
time, and then said,

" Have you nearly finished ? "

" Wery nigh, Mum."

Little Nell.— 11.

102

"I hope I haven't hurried you, George," said his mis
tress, who appeared to have a great sympathy with his
late pursuit.

" If you have," returned the follower, wisely reserving
himself for any favorable contingency that might occur,
" we must make up for it next time, that's all."

" We are not a heavy load, George ? '*

" That's always what the ladies say," replied the man,
looking a long way round, as if he were appealing to
Nature in general against such monstrous propositions.
" If you see a woman a driving, you'll always perceive
that she never will keep her whip still ; the horse can't go
fast enough for her. If cattle have got their proper load,
you never can persuade a woman that they'll not bear
something more. What is the cause of this here ? "

" Would these two travelers make much difference to
the horses, if we took them with us ? " asked his mistress,
offering no reply to the philosophical inquiry, and point-
ing to Nell and the old man, who were painfully preparing
to resume their journey on foot.

" They'd make a difference in course," said George
doggedly.

" Would they make much difference ? " repeated his
mistress. " They can't be very heavy."

" The weight o' the pair, Mum," said George, eyeing
them with the look of a man who was calculating within
half an ounce or so, " would be a trifle under that of
Oliver Cromwell."

Nell was very much surprised that the man should be
so accurately acquainted with the weight of one whom
she had read of in books as having lived considerably be-
fore their time, but speedily forgot the subject in the joy
of hearing that they were to go forward in the caravan,
for which she thanked its lady with unaffected earnest-
ness. She helped with great readiness and alacrity to put

163

away the tea things and other matters that were lying about,
and, the horses being by that time harnessed, mounted
into the vehicle, followed by her delighted grandfather.
Their patroness then shut the door and sat herself down
by her drum at an open window ; and, the steps being
struck by George and stowed under the carriage, away
they went, with a great noise of flapping and creaking and
straining, and the bright brass knocker, which nobody
ever knocked at, knocking one perpetual double knock of
its own accord as they jolted heavily along.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND.

When they had traveled slowly forward for some short
distance, Nell ventured to steal a look round the caravan
and observe it more closely. One half of it — that moiety
in which the comfortable proprietress was then seated —
was carpeted, and so partitioned off at the further end as
to accommodate a sleeping place, constructed after the
fashion of a berth on board ship, which- was shaded, like
the little windows, with fair white curtains, and looked
comfortable enough, though by what kind of gymnastic
exercise the lady of the caravan ever contrived to get
into it, was an unfathomable mystery. The other half
served for a kitchen, and was fitted up with a stove whose
small chimney passed through the roof. It held also a
closet or larder, several chests, a great pitcher of water,
and a few cooking utensils and articles of crockery.
These latter necessaries hung upon the walls, which, in
that portion of the establishment devoted to the lady of
the caravan, were ornamented with such gayer and lighter
decorations as a triangle and a couple of well-thumbed
tambourines.

The lady of the caravan sat at one window in all the

164

pride and poetry of the musical instruments, and little
Nell and her grandfather sat at the other in all the
humility of the kettle and saucepans, while the machine
jogged on and shifted the darkening prospect very slowly.
At first the two travelers spoke little, and only in
whispers, but as they grew more familiar with the place
they ventured to converse with greater freedom, and
talked about the country through which they were pass-
ing, and the different objects that presented themselves,
until the old man fell asleep ; which the lady of the
caravan observing, invited Nell to come and sit beside
her.

"Well, child," she said, "how do you like this way of
traveling ? "

Nell replied that she thought it was very pleasant in-
deed, to which the lady assented in the case of people who
had their spirits. For herself, she said, she was troubled
with a lowness in that respect which required a constant
stimulant.

"That's the happiness of you young people," she con-
tinued. " You don't know what it is to be low in your
feelings. You always have your appetites too, and what
a comfort that is."

Nell thought that she could sometimes dispense with
her own appetite very conveniently ; and thought, more-
over, that there was nothing either in the lady's personal
appearance or in her manner of taking tea, to lead to the
conclusion that her natural relish for meat and drink had
at all failed her. She silently assented, however, as in
duty bound, to what the lady had said, and waited until
she should speak again.

Instead of speaking, however, she sat looking at the
child for a long time in silence, and then getting up,
brought out from a corner a large roll of canvas about a
yard in width, which she laid upon the floor and spread

i6 S

open with her foot until it nearly reached from one end of
the caravan to the other.

"There, child," she said, "read that."

Nell walked down it, and read aloud, in enormous
black letters, the inscription, " Jarley's Waxwork."

" Read it again," said the lady, complacently.

"Jarley's Waxwork," repeated Nell.

" That's me," said the lady. " I am Mrs. Jarley."

Giving the child an encouraging look, intended to reas-
sure her and let her know, that, although she stood in the
presence of the original Jarley, she mqst not allow herself
to be utterly overwhelmed and borne down, the lady of
the caravan unfolded another scroll, whereon was the
inscription, " One hundred figures the full size of life,"
and then another scroll, on which was written, " The only
stupendous collection of real waxwork in the world," and
then several smaller scrolls with such inscriptions as " Now
exhibiting within " — " The genuine and only Jarley " —
" Jarley's unrivaled collection " — " Jarley is the delight
of the Nobility and Gentry" — "The Royal Family are
the patrons of Jarley." When she had exhibited these
leviathans of public announcement to the astonished child,
she brought forth specimens of the lesser fry in the shape
of handbills, some of which were couched in the form of
parodies on popular melodies, as " Believe me if all
Jarley's waxwork so rare " — " I saw thy show in youthful
prime " — " Over the water to Jarley ; " while, to consult
all tastes, others were composed with a view to the lighter
and more facetious spirits, as a parody on the favorite
air of " If I had a donkey," beginning

If I know'd a donkey wot wouldn't go
To see Mrs. Jarley's waxwork show,
Bo you think I'd acknowledge him ?
Oh, no, no I

Then run to Jarley's —

i66

— besides several compositions in prose, all having the
same moral, namely, that the reader must make haste to
Jarley's, and that children and servants were admitted at
half-price. When she had brought all these testimonials
of her important position in society to bear upon her
young companion, Mrs. Jarley rolled them up, and having
put them carefully away, sat down again, and looked at
the child in triumph.

"Never go into the company of a filthy Punch any
more," said Mrs. Jarley, " after this."

" I never saw any waxwork, ma'am," said Nell. " Is
it funnier than Punch ? "

" Funnier ! " said Mrs. Jarley in a shrill voice. " It is
not funny at all."

" Oh ! " said Nell, with all possible humility.

" It isn't funny at all," repeated Mrs. Jarley. " It's
calm and — what's that word again — critical ? — no— class-
ical, that's it — it's calm and classical. No low beatings
and knockings about, no jokings and squeakings like
your precious Punches, but always the same, with a con-
stantly unchanging air of coldness and gentility ; and so
like life, that if waxwork only spoke and walked about,
you'd hardly know the difference. I won't go so far as
to say, that, as it is, I've seen waxwork quite like life,
but I've certainly seen some life that was exactly like
waxwork."

" Is it here, ma'am ? " asked Nell, whose curiosity was
awakened by this description.

" Is what here, child ? "

" The waxwork, ma'am."

"Why, bless you, child, what are you thinking of?
How could such a collection be here, where you see
everything except the inside of one little cupboard and a
few boxes ? It's gone on in the other wans to the assem-
bly rooms, and there it'll be exhibited the day after to-

167

morrow. You are going to the same town, and you'll see
it I dare say. It's natural to. expect that you'll see it,
and I've no doubt you will. . I suppose you couldn't stop
away if you was to try ever so much."

"I shall not be in the town, I think, ma'am," said the
child.

" Not there ! " cried Mrs. Jarley. " Then where will
you be?"

" I — I — don't quite know. I am not Certain."

" You don't mean to say that you're traveling about
the country without knowing where you're going to ? "
said the lady of the caravan. " What curious people you
are ! What line are you in ? You looked to me at the
races, child, as if you were quite out of your element,
and -had got there by accident."

" We were there quite by accident," returned Nell, con-
fused by this abrupt questioning. "We are poor people,
ma'am, and are only wandering about. We have nothing
to do ; — I wish we had."

" You amaze me more and more," said Mrs. Jarley,
after remaining for some time as mute as one of her own
figures, " Why, what do you call yourselves ? Not beg-
gars ? "

" Indeed, ma'am, I don't know what else we are,"
returned the child.

" Lord bless me," said the lady of the caravan. " I
never heard of such a thing. Who'd have thought it ! ''

She remained so long silent after this exclamation, that
Nell feared she felt her having been induced to bestow
her protection and conversation upon one so poor, to be
an outrage upon her dignity that nothing could repair.
This persuasion was rather confirmed than otherwise by
the tone in which she at length broke silence and said,

" And yet you can read. And write too, I shouldn't
wonder ? "

i68

"Yes, ma'am," said the child, fearful of giving new
offense by the confession.

" Well, and what a thing that is," returned Mrs. Jarley.
" / can't ! "

Nell said " indeed " in a tone which might imply, either
that she was reasonably surprised to find the genuine
and only Jarley, who was the delight of the Nobility and
Gentry and the peculiar pet of the Royal Family, destitute
of these familiar arts ; or that she presumed so great a
lady could scarcely stand in need of such ordinary accom-
plishments. In whatever way Mrs. Jarley received the
response, it did not provoke her to further questioning, or
tempt her into any more remarks at the time, for she
relapsed into a thoughtful silence, and remained in that
state so long that Nell withdrew to the other window and
rejoined her grandfather, who was now awake.

At length the lady of the caravan shook off her fit of
meditation, and, summoning the driver to come under
the window at which she was seated, held a long conver-
sation with him in a low tone of voice, as if she were
asking his advice on an important point, and discussing
the pros and cons of some very weighty matter. This
conference at length concluded, she drew in her head
again, and beckoned Nell to approach.

" And the old gentleman too," said Mrs. Jarley ; " for
I want to have a word with him. Do you want a good
situation for your granddaughter, master ? If you do,
I can put her in the way of getting one. What do you
say?"

" I can't leave her," answered the old man. " We
can't separate. What would become of me without her ? "

" I should have thought you were old enough to take
care of yourself, if you ever will be," retorted Mrs. Jarley
sharply.

" But he never will be," said the child in an earnest

169

whisper. " I fear he never will be again. Pray do not
speak harshly to him. We are very thankful to you," she
added aloud ; " but neither of us could part from the
other if all the wealth of the world were halved between
us."

Mrs. Jarley was a little disconcerted by this reception
of her proposal, and looked at the old man, who tenderly
took Nell's hand and detained it in his own, as if she
could have very well dispensed with his company or even
his earthly existence. After" an awkward pause, she
thrust her head out of the window again, and had another
conference with the driver upon some point on which
they did not seem to agree quite so readily as on their
former topic of discussion ; but they concluded at last,
and she addressed the grandfather again.

" If you're really disposed to employ yourself," said
Mrs. Jarley, " there would be plenty for you to do in the
way of helping to dust the figures, and take the checks,
and so forth. What I want your granddaughter for, is to
point 'em out to the company ; they would be soon learnt,
and she has a way with her that people wouldn't think
unpleasant, though she does come after me ; for I've been
always accustomed to go round with visitors myself,
which I should keep on doing now, only that my spirits
make a little ease absolutely necessary. It's not a com-
mon offer, bear in mind," said the lady, rising into the
tone and manner in which she was accustomed to address
her audiences ; " it's Jarley 's waxwork, remember. The
duty's very light and genteel, the company particular
select, the exhibition takes place in assembly rooms,
townhalls, large rooms at inns> or auction galleries.
There is none of your open-air wagrancy at Jarley's, rec-
ollect ; there is no tarpaulin and sawdust at Jarley's,
remember. Every expectation held out in the handbills
is realized to the utmost, and the whole forms an effect

170

of imposing brilliancy hitherto unrivaled in this king-
dom. Remember that the price of admission is only six-
pence, and that this is an opportunity which may never
occur again ! "

Descending from the sublime when she had reached
this point, to the details of common life, Mrs. Jarley re-
marked that with reference to salary she could pledge
herself to no specific sum until she-had sufficiently tested
Nell's abilities, and narrowly watched her in the per-
formance of her duties. But board and lodging, both for
her and her grandfather, she bound herself to provide,
and she furthermore passed her word that the board
should always be good in quality, and in quantity plentiful.

Nell and her grandfather consulted together, and while
they were so engaged, Mrs. Jarley with her hands behind
her walked up and down the caravan, as she had walked
after tea on the dull earth, with uncommon dignity and
self-esteem. Nor will this appear so slight a circumstance
as to be unworthy of mention, when it is remembered
that the caravan was in uneasy motion all the time, and
that none but a person of great natural stateliness and
acquired grace could have forborne to stagger.

" Now, child ? " cried Mrs. Jarley, coming to a halt as
Nell turned towards her.

" We are very much obliged to you, ma'am," said Nell,
" and thankfully accept your offer."

fi And you'll never be sorry for it," returned Mrs.
Jarl-ey. " I'm pretty sure of that. So as that's all settled,
let us have a bit of supper."

In the meanwhile, the caravan blundered on as if it
had been drinking strong beer and was drowsy, and came
at last upon the paved streets of a town which were clear
of passengers, and quiet, for it was by this time near mid-
night, and the townspeople were all abed. As it was too
late an hour to repair to the exhibition room, they turned

i;i

aside into a piece of waste ground that lay just within
the old town gate, and drew up there for the night, near
to another caravan, which, notwithstanding that it bore
on the lawful panel the great name of Jarley, and was
employed besides in conveying from place to place the
waxwork which was its country's pride, was designated
by a groveling stamp office as a " Common Stage Wagon,"
and numbered too — seven thousand odd hundred — as
though its precious freight were mere flour or coals !

This ill-used machine being empty (for it had deposited
its burden at the place of exhibition, and lingered here
until its services were again required) was assigned to the
old man as his sleeping place for the night ; and within
its wooden walls, Nell made him up the best bed she
could, from the materials at hand. For herself, she was
to sleep in Mrs. Jarley's own traveling carriage, as a
signal mark of that lady's favor and confidence.

She had taken leave of her grandfather and was return-
ing to the other wagon, when she was tempted by the
pleasant coolness of the night to linger for a little while
in the air. The moon was shining down upon the old
gateway of the town, leaving the low archway very black
and dark ; and with a mingled sensation of curiosity and
fear, she slowly approached the gate, and stood still to
look up at it, wondering to see how dark, and grim, and
old, and cold, it looked.

There was an empty niche from which some old statue
had fallen or been carried away hundreds of years ago,
and she was thinking what strange people it must have
looked down upon when it stood there, and how many
hard struggles might have taken place, and how many
murders might have been done, upon that silent spot,
when there suddenly emerged from the black shade of
the arch, a man. The instant he appeared, she recog-
nized him — Who could have failed to recognize, in that
instant, the ugly misshapen Quilp !

172

The street beyond was so narrow, and the shadow of
the houses on one side of the way so deep, that he seemed
to have risen out of the earth. But there he was. The
child withdrew into a dark corner, and saw him pass
close to her. He had a stick in his hand, and, when he
had got clear of the shadow of the gateway, he leaned upon
it, looked back — directly, as it seemed, towards' where
she stood — and beckoned.

To her ? oh no, thank God, not to her ; for as she stood,
in an extremity of fear, hesitating whether to scream for
help, or come from her hiding place and fly, before he
should draw nearer, there issued slowly forth from the
arch another figure — that of a boy — who carried on his
back a trunk.

" Faster, sirrah ! " said Quilp, looking up at the old
gateway, and showing in the moonlight like some mon-
strous image that had come down from its niche and was
casting a backward glance at its old house, " faster ! "

" It's a dreadful heavy load, Sir," the boy pleaded.
" I've come on very fast, considering."

" You have come fast, considering ! " retorted Quilp ;
"you creep, you dog, you crawl, you measure distance
like a worm. There are the chimes now, half-past
twelve."

He stopped to listen, and then turning upon the boy
with a suddenness and ferocity that made him start, asked
at what hour that London coach passed the corner of
the road. The boy replied, at one.

" Come on then," said Quilp, " or I shall be too late.
Faster — do you hear me ? Faster."

The boy made all the speed he could, and Quilp led on-
ward, constantly turning back to threaten him, and urge
him to greater haste. Nell did not dare to move until
they were out of sight and hearing, and then hurried to
where she had left her grandfather, feeling as if the very

i73

passing of the dwarf so near him must have filled him
with alarm and terror. But he was sleeping soundly, and
she softly withdrew.

As she was making her way to her own bed, she deter-
mined to say nothing of this adventure, as upon whatever
errand the dwarf had come (and she feared it must have
been in search of them) it was clear by his inquiry about
the London coach that he was on his way homeward, and
as he had passed through that place, it was but reason-
able to suppose that they were safer from his inquiries
there, than they could be elsewhere. These reflections
did not remove her own alarm, for she had been too much
terrified to be easily composed, and felt as if she were
hemmed in by a legion of Quilps, and the very air itself
were filled with them.

The delight of the Nobility and Gentry and the patron-
ized of Royalty had, by some process of self-abridgment
known only to herself, got into her traveling bed, where
. she was snoring peacefully, while the large bonnet, care-
fully disposed upon the drum, was revealing its glories
by the light of a dim lamp that swung from the roof.
The child's bed was already made upon the floor, and it
was a great' comfort to her to hear the steps removed as
soon as she had entered, and to know that all easy com-
munication between persons outside and the brass
knocker was by this means effectually prevented. Cer-
tain guttural sounds, too, which from time to time as-
cended through the door of the caravan, and a rustling of
straw in the same direction, apprised her that the driver
was couched upon the ground beneath, and gave her an
additional feeling of security.

Notwithstanding these protections, she could get none
but broken sleep by fits and starts all night, for fear of
Quilp, who throughout her uneasy dreams was somehow
connected with the waxwork, or was waxwork himself,

174

or was Mrs. Jarley and waxwork too, or was himself,
Mrs. Jarley, waxwork, and a barrel organ all in one, and'
yet not exactly, any of them either. At length, towards
break of day, that deep sleep came upon her which suc-
ceeds to weariness and overwatching, and which has no
consciousness but one of overpowering and irresistible
enjoyment.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD.

Sleep hung upon the eyelids of the child so long, that,
when she awoke, Mrs. Jarley was already decorated with
her large bonnet, and actively engaged in preparing
breakfast. She received Nell's apology for being so late
with perfect good humor, and said that she should not
have roused her if she had slept on until noon.

" Because it does you good," said the lady of the
caravan, " when you're tired, to sleep as long as ever you
can, and get the fatigue quite off ; and that's another
blessing of your time of life — you can sleep so very
sound."

" Have you had a bad night, ma'am ? " asked Nell.

" I seldom have anything else, child," replied Mrs.
Jarley, with the air of a martyr. " I sometimes wonder
how I bear it."

Remembering the snores which had proceeded from
that cleft in the caravan in which the proprietress of the
waxwork passed the night, Nell rather thought she must
have been dreaming of lying awake. However, she
expressed herself very sorry to hear such a dismal
account of her state of health, and shortly afterwards sat
down with her grandfather and Mrs. Jarley to breakfast.
The meal finished, Nell assisted to wash the cups and
saucers, and put them in their proper places, and these

175

household duties performed, Mrs. Jarley arrayed herself
in an exceedingly bright shawl for the purpose of making
a progress through the streets of the town.

" The wan will come on to bring the boxes," said Mrs.
Jarley, " and you had better come in it, child. I am
obliged to walk, very much against my will ; but the
people expect it of me, and public characters can't be
their own masters and mistresses in such matters as
these. How do I look, child ? "

Nell returned a satisfactory reply, and Mrs. Jarley,
after sticking a great many pins into various parts of her
figure, and making several abortive attempts to obtain a
full view of her own back, was at last satisfied with her
appearance, and went forth majestically.

The caravan followed at no great distance. As it went
jolting through the streets, Nell peeped from the window,
curious to see in what kind of place they were, and yet
fearful of encountering at every turn the dreaded face of
Quilp. It was a pretty large town, with an open square
which they were crawling slowly across, and in the middle
of which was the Townhall, with a clock tower and a
weathercock. There were houses of stone, houses of red
brick, houses of yellow brick, houses of lath and plaster,
and houses of wood, many of them very old, with withered
faces carved upon the beams, and staring down into the
street. These had very little, winking windows, and low-
arched doors, and, in some of the narrower ways, quite
overhung the pavement. The streets were very clean,
very sunny, very empty, and very dull. A few idle men
lounged about the two inns, and the empty market place,
and the tradesmen's doors, and some old people were
dozing in chairs outside an almshouse wall ; but scarcely
any passengers who seemed bent on going anywhere or to
have any object in view, went by ; and if perchance some
straggler did, his footsteps echoed on the hot, bright pave-

176

ment for minutes afterwards. Nothing seemed to be going
on but the clocks, and they had such drowsy faces, such
heavy, lazy hands, and such cracked voices, that they
surely must have been too slow. The very dogs were all
asleep, and the flies, drunk with moist sugar in the grocer's
shop, forgot their wings and briskness, and baked to death
in dusty corners of the window.

Rumbling along with most unwonted noise, the caravan
stopped at last at the place of exhibition, where Nell dis-
mounted amidst an admiring group of children, who evi»
dently supposed her to be an important item of the curiosi-
ties, and were fully impressed with the belief that her
grandfather was a cunning device in wax. The chests
were taken out with all convenient despatch, and taken in
to be unlocked by Mrs. Jarley, who, attended by George
and another man in velveteen shorts and a drab hat were
waiting to dispose of their contents (consisting of red fes-
toons and other ornamental devices in upholstery work)
to the best advantage in the decoration of the room.

They all got to work without loss of time, and very
busy they were. As the stupendous collection were yet
concealed by cloths, lest the envious dust should injure
their complexions, Nell bestirred herself to assist in the
embellishment of the room, in which her grandfather also
was of great service. The two men being well used to it,
did a great deal in a short time ; and Mrs. Jarley served
out the tin tacks from a linen pocket like a toll collector's
which she wore for the purpose, and encouraged her
assistants to renewed exertion.

While they were thus employed, a tallish gentleman
with a hook nose and black hair, dressed in a military
surtout very short and tight in the sleeves, and which
had once been frogged and braided all over, but was now
sadly shorn of its garniture and quite threadbare — dressed,
too, in ancient gray pantaloons fitting tight to the leg, and a

177

pair of pumps in the winter of their existence — looked in
at the door, and smiled affably. Mrs. Jarley's back
being then towards him, the military gentleman shook his
forefinger as a sign that her myrmidons were not to ap-
prise her of his presence, and stealing up close behind her,
tapped her on the neck, and cried playfully " Boh ! "

" What, Mr. Slum ! " cried the lady of the waxwork.
" Lor ! who'd have thought of seeing you here ! "

" Ton my soul and honor," said Mr. Slum, " that's a
good remark Ton my soul and honor, that's a wise
remark. Who would have thought it ! George, my faith-
ful feller, how are you ? "

George received this advance with a surly indifference,
observing that he was well enough for the matter of that,
and hammering lustily all the time.

" I came' here," said the military gentleman turning to
Mrs. Jarley, — " Ton my soul and honor, I hardly know
what I came here for. It would puzzle me to tell you, it
would, by Gad. I wanted a little inspiration, a little
freshening up, a little change of ideas, and — Ton my soul
and honor," said the military gentleman, checking him-
self and looking round the room, " what a classical thing
this is ! It's quite Minervian ! "

" It'll look well enough when it comes to be finished,"
observed Mrs. Jarley.

" Well enough ! " said Mr. Slum. " Will you believe
me when I say it's the delight of my life to have dabbled
in poetry, when I think I've exercised my pen upon this
charming theme ? By the way — any orders ? Is there
anylittle thing I can do for you ? "

" It comes so very expensive, Sir," replied Mrs. Jarley,
" and I really don't think it does much good."

" Hush ! No, no ! " returned Mr. Slum, elevating his
hand. " No fibs. I'll not hear it. Don't say it don't do
good. Don't say it. I know better ! "

Little Nell.— 12.

i 7 8

"I don't think it does," said Mrs. Jarley.

" Ha, ha ! " cried Mr. Slum, " you're giving way, you're
coming down. Ask the perfumers, ask the blacking
makers, ask the hatters, ask the old lottery office keepers
— ask any man among 'em what my poetry has done for
him, and mark my words, he blesses the name of Slum.
If he's an honest man, he raises his eyes to heaven,
and blesses the name of Slum — mark that ! You are
acquainted with Westminster Abbey, Mrs. Jarley ? "

" Yes, surely."

" Then upon my soul and honor, ma'am, you'll find in
a certain angle of that dreary pile, called Poets' Corner, a
few smaller names than Slum," retorted that gentleman,
tapping himself expressively on the forehead to imply
that there was some slight quantity of brains behind it.
" I've got a little, trifle here, now," said Mr. Slum, taking
off his hat which was full of scraps of paper, "a little
trifle here, thrown off in the heat of the moment, which I
should say was exactly the thing you wanted to set this
place on fire with. It's an acrostic — the name at this
moment is Warren, but the idea's a convertible one, and
a positive inspiration for Jarley. Have the acrostic."

" I suppose it's very dear," said Mrs. Jarley.

"Five shillings," returned Mr. Slum, using his pencil
as a toothpick. " Cheaper than any prose."

" I couldn't give more than three," said Mrs. Jarley.

" — And six," retorted Slum. "Come. Three-and-six."

Mrs. Jarley was not proof against the poet's insinuat-
ing manner, and Mr. Slum entered the order in a small
notebook as a three-and-sixpenny one. Mr. Slum then
withdrew to alter the acrostic, after taking a most affec-
tionate leave of his patroness, and promising to return,
as soon as he possibly could, with a fair copy for the
printer.

As his presence had not interfered with or interrupted

179

the preparations, they were now far advanced, and were
completed shortly after his departure. When the festoons
were all put up as tastily as they might be, the stupendous
collection was uncovered, and there were displayed, on a
raised platform some two feet from the floor, running
round the room and parted from the rude public by a
crimson rope breast high, divers sprightly effigies of cele-
brated characters, singly and in groups, clad in glittering
dresses of various climes and times, and standing more
or less unsteadily upon their legs, with their eyes very
wide open, and their nostrils very much inflated, and the
muscles of their legs and arms very strongly developed,
and all their countenances expressing great surprise. All
the gentlemen were very pigeon-breasted and very blue
about the beards ; and all the ladies were miraculous
figures ; and all the ladies and all the gentlemen were
looking intensely nowhere, and staring with extraordinary
earnestness at nothing.

When Nell had exhausted her first raptures .at this
glorious sight, Mrs. Jarley ordered the room to be
cleared of all but herself and the child, and, sitting her-
self down in an armchair in the center, formally invested
her with a willow wand, long used by herself for pointing
out the characters, and was at great pains to instruct her
in her duty.

" That," said Mrs. Jarley in her exhibition tone, as Nell
touched a figure at the beginning of the platform, " is an
unfortunate maid of honor in the time of Queen Eliza-
beth, who died from pricking her finger in consequence
of working upon a Sunday. Observe the blood which is
trickling from her finger ; also the gold-eyed needle of the
period, with which she is at work."

All this Nell repeated twice or thrice, pointing to the
finger and the needle at the right times, and then passed
on to the next.

i8o

" That, ladies and gentlemen," said Mrs. Jarley, " is
Jasper Packlemerton of atrocious memory, who courted
and married fourteen wives, and destroyed them all by
tickling the soles of their feet when they was sleeping in
the consciousness of innocence and virtue. On being
brought to the scaffold and asked if he was sorry for what
he had done, he replied yes, he was sorry for having let
'em off so easy, and hoped all Christian husbands would
pardon him the offense. Let this be a warning to all
young ladies to be particular in the character of the gentle-
men of their choice. Observe that his fingers is curled as
if in the act of tickling, and that his face is represented
with a wink, as he appeared when committing his barbar-
ous murders."

When Nell knew all about Mr. Packlemerton, and could
say it without faltering, Mrs. Jarley passed on to the fat
man, and then to the thin man, the tall man, the short man,
the old lady who died of dancing at a hundred and thirty-
two, the wild boy of the woods, the woman who poisoned
fourteen families with pickled walnuts, and other histori-
cal characters and interesting but misguided individuals.
And so well did Nell profit by her instructions, and so
apt was she to remember them, that by the time they had
been shut up together for a couple of hours, she was in
full possession of the history of the whole establishment,
and perfectly competent to the enlightenment of visitors.

Mrs. Jarley was not slow to express her admiration at
this happy result, and carried her young friend and pupil
to inspect the remaining arrangements within doors, by
virtue of which the passage had been already converted
into a grove of green baize hung with the inscriptions she
had already seen (Mr. Slum's productions), and a highly
ornamented table placed at the upper end for Mrs. Jarley
herself, at which she was to preside and take the money,
in company with his Majesty King George the Third, Mr.

181

Grimaldi as clown, Mary Queen of Scots, an anonymous
gentleman of the Quaker persuasion, and Mr. Pitt holding
in his hand a correct model of the bill for the imposition
of the window duty. The preparations without doors had
not been neglected either ; for a nun of great personal
attractions was telling her beads on the little portico
over the door; and a brigand with the blackest possible
head of hair, and the clearest possible complexion, was
at that moment going round the town in a cart, consult-
ing the miniature of a lady.

It now only remained that Mr. Slum's compositions
should be judiciously distributed ; that the pathetic effu-
sions should find their way to all private houses and trades-
people ; and that the parody commencing " If I know'd a
donkey," should be confined to the taverns, and circulated
only among the lawyers' clerks and choice spirits of the
place. When this had been done, and Mrs. Jarley had
waited upon the boarding schools in person, with a hand-
bill composed expressly for them, in which it was dis-
tinctly proved that waxwork refined the mind, cultivated
the taste, and enlarged the sphere of the human under-
standing, that indefatigable lady sat down to dinner.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH.

Unquestionably Mrs. Jarley had an inventive genius.
In the midst of the various devices for attracting visitors
to the exhibition, little Nell was not forgotten. The light
cart in which the Brigand usually made his perambulations
being gaily dressed with flags and streamers, and the
Brigand placed therein, contemplating the miniature of
his beloved as usual, Nell was accommodated with a seat
beside him, decorated with artificial flowers, and in this
state and ceremony rode slowly through the town every

1 82

morning, dispersing handbills from a basket, to the sound
of drum and trumpet. The beauty of the child, coupled
with her gentle and timid bearing, produced quite a sen-
sation in the little country place. The Brigand, heretofore
a source of exclusive interest in the streets, became a
mere secondary consideration, and to be important only as
a part of the show of which she was the chief attraction.
Grown up folks began to be interested in the bright-eyed
girl, and some score of little boys fell desperately in love,
and constantly left inclosures of nuts and apples, directed
in small text, at the waxwork door.

This desirable impression was not lost upon Mrs. Jar-
ley, who, lest Nell should become too cheap, soon sent
the Brigand out alone again, and kept her in the exhibi-
tion room, where she described the figures every half hour
to the great satisfaction of admiring audiences. And
these audiences were of a very superior description, includ-
ing a great many young ladies' boarding schools, whose
favor Mrs. Jarley had been at great pains to conciliate, by
altering the face and costume of Mr. Grimaldi as clown to
represent Mr. Lindley Murray as he appeared when en-
gaged in the composition of his English Grammar, and
turning a murderess of great renown into Mrs. Hannah
More — both of which likenesses were admitted by Miss
Monflatbers, who was at the head of the head Boarding
and Day Establishment in the town, and who conde-
scended to take a private view with eight chosen young
ladies, to be quite startling from their extreme correctness.
Mr. Pitt in a nightcap and bedgown, and without his boots,
represented the poet Cowper with perfect exactness ; and
Mary Queen of Scots in a dark wig, white shirt collar,
and male attire, was such a complete image of Lord Byron
that the young ladies quite screamed when they saw it.
Miss Monflathers, however, rebuked this enthusiasm, and
took occasion to reprove Mrs. Jarley for not keeping her

183

collection more select, observing that his lordship had
held certain free opinions quite incompatible with wax-
work honors.

Although her duties were sufficiently laborious, Nell
found in the lady of the caravan a very kind and consider-
ate person, who had not only a peculiar relish for being
comfortable herself, but for making everybody about her
comfortable also ; which latter taste, it may be remarked,
is, even in persons who live in much finer places than car-
avans, a far more rare and uncommon one than the first,
and is not by any means its necessary consequence. As
her popularity procured her various little fees from the
visitors on which her patroness never demanded any toll,
and as her grandfather, too, was well-treated and useful,
she had no cause of anxiety in connection with the wax-
work, beyond that which sprang from her recollection of
Quilp, and her fears that he might return and one day sud-
denly encounter them.

One evening, a holiday night with them, Nell and. her
grandfather went out to walk. They had been rather
closely confined for some days, and the weather being
warm, they strolled a long distance. Clear of the town,
they took a footpath which struck through some pleasant
fields, judging that it would terminate in the road they
quitted and enable them to return that way. It made, how-
ever, a much wider circuit than they had supposed, and
thus they were tempted onward until sunset, when they
reached the track of which they were in search, and stopped
to rest.

It had been gradually getting overcast, and now the sky
was dark and lowering, save where the glory of the depart-
ing sun piled up masses of gold and burning fire, decaying
embers of which gleamed here and there through the
black veil, and shone redly down upon the earth. The
wind began to moan in hollow murmurs, as the sun went

1 84

down carrying glad day elsewhere ; and a train of dull
clouds coming up against it, menaced thunder and light-
ning. Large drops of rain soon began to fall, and, as
the storm clouds came sailing onward, others supplied the
void they left behind and spread over all the sky. Then
was heard the low rumbling of distant thunder, then the
lightning quivered, and then the darkness of an hour
seemed to have gathered in an instant.

Fearful of taking shelter beneath a tree or hedge, the
old man and the child hurried along the high road, hoping
to find some house in which they could seek a refuge from
the storm, which had now burst forth in earnest, and every
moment increased in violence. Drenched with the pelting
rain, confused by the deafening thunder, and bewildered
by the glare of the forked lightning, they would have
passed a solitary house without being aware of its vicinity,
had not a man, who was standing at the door, called lustily
to them to enter.

"Your ears ought to be better than other folks' at any
rate, if you make so little of the chance of being struck
blind," he said, retreating from the door and shading his
eyes with his hands as the jagged lightning came again.
" What were you going past for, eh ? " he added, as he
closed the door and led the way along a passage to a room
behind.

"We didn't see the house, Sir, till we heard you calling,"
Nell replied.

" No wonder," said the man, " with this lightning in one's
eyes, by the bye. You had better stand by the fire here,
and dry yourselves a bit. You can call for what you like
if you want anything. If you don't want anything, you
are not obliged to give an order, don't be afraid of that.
This is a public house that's all. The Valiant Soldier is
pretty well known hereabouts."

" Is this house called the Valiant Soldier, Sir ? " asked
Nell

i8 5

" I thought everybody knew that," replied the landlord.
" Where have you come from, if you don't know the
Valiant Soldier as well as the Church catechism ? This is
the Valiant Soldier, by James Groves, — Jem Groves —
honest Jem Groves, as is a man of unblemished moral
character, and has a good dry skittle ground. If any man
has got anything to say again Jem Groves, let him say it
to Jem Groves, and Jem Groves can accommodate him
with a customer on any terms from four pound a side to
forty."

With these words, the speaker tapped himself on the
waistcoat to intimate that he was the Jem Groves so
highly eulogized ; sparred scientifically at a counterfeit
Jem Groves, who was sparring at society in general from
a black frame over the chimney piece.

The night being warm, there was a large screen drawn
across the room, for a barrier against the heat of the fire.
It seemed as if somebody on the other side of this screen
had been insinuating doubts of Mr. Groves's prowess, and
had thereby given rise to these egotistical expressions,
for Mr. Groves wound up his defiance by giving a loud
knock upon it with his knuckles and pausing for a reply
from the other side.

" There an't many men," said Mr. Groves, no answer
being returned, " who would ventur' to cross Jem Groves
under his own roof. There's only one man, I know, that
has nerve enough for that, and that man's not a hundred
mile from here neither. But he's worth a dozen men, and
I let him say of me whatever he likes in consequence, —
he knows that."

In return for this complimentary address, a very gruff
hoarse voice bade Mr. Groves hold his noise and light a
candle. And the same, voice remarked that the. same
gentleman needn't waste his breath in brag, for most
people knew pretty well what sort of stuff he was made of.

186

"Nell, they're — they're playing cards," whispered the
old man, suddenly interested. " Don't you hear them ? '

" Look sharp with that candle," said the voice ; "it's as
much as I can do to see the pips on the cards as it is ; and
get this shutter closed as quick as you can, will you ?
Game ! Seven-and- sixpence to me, old Isaac. Hand
over."

" Do you hear, Nell, do you hear them ? " whispered the
old man again, with increased earnestness, as the money
chinked upon the table.

" I haven't seen such a storm as this," said a sharp,
cracked voice of most disagreeable quality, when a tre-
mendous peal of thunder had died away, " since the night
when old Luke Withers won thirteen times running, upon
the red."

" Ah ! " returned the gruff voice ; " for all old Luke's
winning through thick and thin of late years, I remember
the time when he was the unluckiest and unfortunatest of
men. He never took a dicebox in his hand, or held a
card, but he was plucked, pigeoned, and cleaned out com-
pletely."

" Do you hear what he says ? " whispered the old man.
" Do you hear that, Nell ? "

The child saw with astonishment and alarm that his
whole appearance had undergone a complete change. His
face was flushed and eager, his eyes were strained, his
teeth set, his breath came short and thick, and the hand
he laid upon her arm trembled so violently that she shook
beneath its grasp.

" Bear witness," he muttered, looking upward, " that I
always said it ; that I knew it, dreamed of it, felt it was
the truth, and that it must be so ! What money have we,
Nell ? Come ! I saw you with money yesterday. What
money have we ? Give it to me."

" No, no, let me keep it, grandfather," said the fright-

i8 7

ened child. " Let us go away from here. Do not mind
the rain. Pray let us go."

" Give it to me, I say," returned the old man fiercely.
" Hush, hush, don't cry, Nell. If I spoke sharply, dear,
I didn't mean it. It's for thy good. I have wronged
thee, Nell, but I will right thee yet, I will indeed. Where
is the money ? "

" Do not take it," said the child. " Pray do not take it,
dear. For both our sakes let me keep it, or let me throw
it away — better let me throw it away, than you take it
now. Let us go ; do let us go."

" Give me the money," returned the old man, " I must
have it. There — there — that's my dear Nell. I'll right
thee one day, child, I'll right thee, never fear ! "

She took from her pocket a little purse. He seized it
with the same rapid impatience which had characterized
his speech, and hastily made his way to the other side of
the screen. It was impossible to restrain him, and the
trembling child followed close behind.

The landlord had placed a light upon the table, and was
engaged in drawing the curtain of the window. The
speakers whom they had heard were two men, who had a
pack of cards and some silver money between them, while
upon the screen itself the games they had played were
scored in chalk. The man with the rough voice was a
burly fellow of middle age, with large black whiskers,
broad cheeks, a coarse, wide mouth, and bull neck, which
was pretty freely displayed as his shirt collar was only
confined Jay a loose, red neckerchief. He wore his hat,
which was of a brownish white, and had beside him a
thick, knotted stick. The other man, whom his companion
had called Isaac, was of a more slender figure — stooping,
and high in the shoulders — with a very ill-favored face,
and a most sinister and villainoils squint.

" Now, old gentleman," said Isaac, looking round.

" Do you know either of us ? This side of the screen is
private, Sir."

" No offense, I hope," returned the old man.

"But, there is offense," said the other, interrupting him,
" when you intrude yourself upon a couple of gentlemen
who are particularly engaged."

" I had no intention to offend," said the old man, look-
ing anxiously at the cards, " I thought that — "

" But you had no right to think, Sir," retorted the
other. " What has a man at your time of life to do with
thinking ? "

" Now,' 7 said the stout man, raising his eyes from his
cards for the first time, " can't you let him speak ? "

The landlord, who had apparently resolved to remain
neutral until he knew which side of the question the
stout man would espouse, chimed in at this place with
" Ah, to be sure, can't you let him speak, Isaac List ? "

" Can't I let him speak," sneered Isaac in reply, mimick-
ing as nearly as he could, in his shrill voice, the tones of
the landlord. "Yes, I can let him speak, Jemmy Groves."

" Well then, do it, will you ? " said the landlord.

Mr. List's squint assumed a portentous character,
which seemed to threaten a prolongation of this con-
troversy, when his companion, who had been looking
sharply at the old man, put a timely stop to it.

" Who knows," said he, with a cunning look, " but the
gentleman may have civilly meant to ask if he might have
the honor to take a hand with us ! "

" I did mean it," cried the old man. " That is what I
mean. That is what I want now ! "

" I thought so," returned the same man. " Then who
knows but the gentleman, anticipating our objection to
play for love, civilly desired to play for money ? "

The old man replied by shaking the little purse in his
eager hand, and then throwing it down upon the table,

189

and gathering up the cards as a miser would clutch at
gold.

" Oh ! That indeed — " said Isaac ; " if that's what the
gentleman meant, I beg the gentleman's pardon. Is this
the gentleman's little purse ? A very pretty little purse.
Rather a light purse," added Isaac, throwing it into the
air and catching it dexterously, " but enough to amuse a
gentleman for half an hour or so."

" We'll make a four-handed game of it, and take in
Groves," said the stout man. " Come, Jemmy."

The landlord, who conducted himself like one who was
well used to such little parties, approached the table and
took his seat. The child, in perfect agony, drew her
grandfather aside, and implored him, even then, to come
away.

" Come ; and we may be so happy," said the child.

" We will bt happy," replied the old man hastily. " Let
me go, Nell. The means of happiness are on the cards
and in the dice. We must rise from little winnings to
great. There's little to be won here ; but great will come
in time. I shall but win back my own, and it's all for
thee, my darling."

" God help us! " cried the child. " Oh ! what hard for-
tune brought us here ? "

" Hush ! " rejoined the old man laying his hand upon her
mouth, " Fortune will not bear chiding. We must not
reproach her, or she shuns us ; I have found that out."

" Now, mister," said the stout man. " If you're not
coming yourself, give us the cards, will you ? ''

" I am coming," cried the old man. " Sit thee down,
Nell, sit thee down and look on. Be of good heart, it's
all for thee — all — every penny. I don't tell them, no, no,
or else they wouldn't play, dreading the chance that such
a cause must give me. Look at them. See what they
are and what thou art. Who doubts that we must win ! "

190

"The gentleman has thought better of it, and isn't
coming," said Isaac, making as though he would rise
from the table. " I'm sorry the gentleman's daunted —
nothing venture, nothing have — but the gentleman knows
best."

" Why, I am ready. You have all been slow but me,"
said the old man. "I wonder who's more anxious to
begin than I."

As he spoke he drew a chair to the table ; and the
other three closing round it at the same time, the game
commenced.

The child sat by, and watched its progress with a
troubled mind. Regardless of the run of luck, and mind-
ful only of the desperate passion which had its hold upon
her grandfather, losses and gains were to her alike.
Exulting in some brief triumph, or cast down by a aefeat,
there he sat so wild and restless, so feverishly and
intensely anxious, so terribly eager, so ravenous for the
paltry stakes, that she could have almost better borne to
see him dead. And yet she was the innocent cause of
all this torture, and he, gambling with such a savage
thirst for gain as the most insatiable gambler never felt,
had not one selfish thought !

On the contrary, the other three — knaves and gamesters
by their trade — while intent upon their game, were yet as
cool and quiet as if every virtue had been centered in their
breasts. Sometimes one would look up to smile to another,
or to snuff the feeble candle, or to glance at the lightning
as it shot through the open window and fluttering curtain,
or to listen to some louder peal of thunder than the rest,
with a kind of momentary impatience, as if it put him out ;
but there they sat, with a calm indifference to everything
but their cards, perfect philosophers in appearance, and
with no greater show of passion or excitement than if they
had been made of stone.

igi

The storm had raged for full three hours ; the lightning
had grown fainter and less frequent ; the thunder, from
seeming to roll and break above their heads, had gradu-
ally died away into a deep hoarse distance ; and still the
game went on, and still the anxious child was quite for-
gotten.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH.

At length the play came to an end, and Mr. Isaac List
rose the only winner. Mat and the landlord bore their
losses with professional fortitude. Isaac pocketed his
gains with the air of a man who had quite made up his
mind to win, all along, and was neither surprised nor
pleased.

Nell's little purse was exhausted ; but, although it lay
empty by his side, and the other players had now risen from
the table, the old man sat poring over the cards, dealing
them as they had been dealt before, and turning up the diff-
erent hands to see what each man would have held if they
had still been playing. He was quite absorbed in this occu-
pation, when the child drew near and laid her hand upon
his shoulder, telling him it was near midnight.

" See the curse of poverty, Nell," he said, pointing to the
packs he had spread put upon the table. " If I could
have gone on a little longer, only a little longer, the luck
would have turned on my side. Yes, it's as plain as the
marks upon the cards. See here — and there — and here
again."

" Put them away," urged the child. " Try to forget
them."

" Try to forget them ! " he rejoined, raising his haggard
face to hers, and regarding her with an incredulous stare.

192

" To forget them ! How are we ever to grow rich if I
forget them ? "

The child could only shake her head.

" No, no, Nell," said the old man, patting her cheek ;
" they must not be forgotten. We nyist make amends for
this as soon as we can. Patience — patience, and we'll
right thee yet, I promise thee. Lose to-day win to-mor-
row. And nothing can be won without anxiety and care
— nothing. Come, I am ready.''

" Do you know what the time is ? " said Mr. Groves, who
was smoking with his friends. " Past twelve o'clock — '"

— " And a rainy night," added the stout man.

" The Valiant Soldier, by James Groves. Good beds.
Cheap entertainment for man and beast," said Mr. Groves,
quoting his signboard. Half-past twelve o'clock."

" It's very late," said the uneasy child. " I wish we had
gone before. What will they think of us ! It will be two
o'clock by the time we get back. What would it cost, Sir,
if we stopped here ? "

" Two good beds, one-and-sixpence ; supper one shilling ;
total, two shillings and sixpence," replied the Valiant
Soldier.

Now, Nell had still the piece of gold sewed in her dress ;
and when she came to consider the lateness of the hour,
and the somnolent habits of Mrs. Jarley, and to imagine
the state of consternation in which they would certainly
throw that good lady by knocking her up in the middle of
the night — and when she reflected, on the other hand, that
if they remained where they were, and rose early in the
morning, they might get back before she awoke, and could
plead the violence of the storm by which they had been
overtaken, as a good apology for their absence — she de-
cided, after a great deal of hesitation, to remain. She
therefore took her grandfather aside, and telling him that
she had still enough left to defray the cost of their lodg-
ing, proposed that they should stay there for the night.

193

" If I had had but that money before — If I had only
known of it a few minutes ago ! " muttered the old man.

" We will decide to stop here if you please," said Nell,
turning hastily to the landlord.

" I think that's prudent," returned Mr. Groves. " You
shall have your suppers directly."

Accordingly, when Mr. Groves had smoked his pipe out,
knocked out the ashes, and placed it carefully in a corner
of the fireplace, with the bowl downwards, he brought in
the bread and cheese, with many high encomiums upon
their excellence, and bade his guests to fall to and make
themselves at home. Nell and her grandfather ate spar-
ingly, for both were occupied with their own reflections.

As they would leave the house very early in the morn-
ing, the child was anxious to pay for their entertainment
before they retired to bed. But as she felt the necessity
of concealing her little hoard from her grandfather, and
had to change the piece of gold, she took it secretly from
its place of concealment, and embraced an opportunity of
following the landlord when he went out of the room, and
tendered it to him in the little bar.

" Will you give me the change here, if you please ? "
said the child.

Mr. James Groves was evidently surprised, and looked
at the money, and rang it, and looked at the child, and at
the money again, as though he had a mind to inquire how
she came by it. The coin being genuine, however, and
changed at his house, he probably felt, like a wise land-
lord, that it was no business of his. At any rate, he
counted out the change, and gave it her. The child was
returning to the room where they had passed the evening,
when she fancied she saw a figure just gliding in at the
door. There was nothing but a long dark passage between
this door and the place where she had changed the money,
and, being very certain that no person had passed in or

Little Nell.— 13.

194

out while she stood there, the thought struck her that she
had been watched.

But by whom ? When she reentered the room, she
found its inmates exactly as she had left them. The stout
fellow lay upon two chairs, resting his head on his hand,
and the squinting man reposed in a similar attitude on the
opposite side of the table. Between them sat her grand-
father, looking intently at the winner with a kind of hun-
gry admiration, and hanging upon his words as if he were
some superior being. She was puzzled for a moment, and
looked round to see if any one else were there. No. Then
she asked her grandfather in a whisper whether anybody
had left the room while she was absent. " No," he said,
" nobody."

It must have been her fancy then ; and yet it was strange,
that, without anything in her previous thoughts to lead to
it, she should have imagined this figure so very distinctly.
She was still wondering and thinking of it, when a girl
came to light her to bed.

The old man took leave of the company at the same
time, and they went upstairs together. It was a great,
rambling house, with dull corridors and wide staircases
which the flaring candles seemed to make more gloomy.
She left her grandfather in his chamber, and followed her
guide to another, which was at the end of a passage, and
approached by some half dozen crazy steps. This was
prepared for her. The girl lingered a little while to talk,
and tell her grievances. She had not a good place, she
said ; the wages were low, and the work was hard. She
was going to leave it in a fortnight ; the child couldn't
recommend her to another, she supposed ? Indeed she
was afraid another would be difficult to get after living
there, for the house had a very indifferent character ; there
was far too much card playing, and such like. She was
very much mistaken if some of the people who came there

i95

oftenest were quite as honest as they might be, but she
wouldn't have it known that she had said so, for the world.
Then there were some rambling allusions to a rejected
sweetheart, who had threatened to go a soldiering — a final
promise of knocking at the door early in the morning — and
" Good night."

The child did not feel comfortable when she was left
alone. She could not help thinking of the figure stealing
through the passage downstairs ; and what the girl had
said did not tend to reassure her. The men were very ill-
looking. They might get their living By robbing and mur-
dering travelers. Who could tell ?

Reasoning herself out of these fears, or losing sight of
them for a little while, there came the anxiety to which
the adventures of the night gave rise. Here was the old
passion awakened again in her grandfather's breast, and
to what further distraction it might tempt him Heaven
only knew. What fears their absence might have oc-
casioned already ! Persons might be seeking for them
even then. Would they be forgiven in the morning, or
turned adrift again ? Oh ! why had they stopped in that
strange place ? It would have been better, under any cir-
cumstances, to have gone on !

At last, sleep gradually stole upon her — a broken, fitful
sleep, troubled by dreams of falling from high towers,
and waking with a start and in great terror. A deeper
slumber followed this — and then — What ! That figure in
the room !

A figure was there. Yes, she had drawn up the blind
to admit the light when it should dawn, and there, between
the foot of the bed and the dark casement, it crouched
and slunk along, groping its way with noiseless hands,
and stealing round the bed. She had no voice to cry for
help, no power to move, but lay still, watching it.

On it came — on, silently and stealthily, to the bed's

I<JO

head. The breath so near her pillow, that she shrank
back into it, lest those wandering hands should light upon
her face. Back again it stole to the window — then turned
its head towards her.

The dark form was a mere blot upon the lighter dark-
ness of the room, but she saw the turning of the head, and
felt and knew how the eyes looked and the ears listened.
There it remained, motionless as she. At length, still
keeping the face "towards her, it busied its hand in some-
thing, and she heard the chink of money.

Then, on it came again, silent and stealthy as before,
and, replacing the garments it had taken from the bedside,
dropped upon its hands and knees, and crawled away.
How slowly it seemed to move, now that she could hear
but not see it, creeping along the floor ! It reached the
door at last, and stood upon its feet. The steps^creaked
beneath its noiseless tread, and it was gone.

The first impulse of the child was to fly from the terror
of being by herself in that room — to have somebody by —
not to be alone — and then her power of speech would be
restored. With no consciousness of having moved, she
gained the door.

There was the dreadful shadow, pausing at the bottom
of the steps.

She could not pass it ; she might have done so, per-
haps, in the darkness, without being seized, but her blood
curdled at the thought. The figure stood quite still, and
so did she ; not boldly, but of necessity ; for going back
into the room was hardly less terrible than going on.

The rain beat fast and furiously without, and ran down
in plashing streams from the thatched roof. Some sum-
mer insect, with no escape into the air, flew blindly to and
fro, beating his body against the walls and ceiling, and
filling the silent place with his murmurs. The figure
moved again. The child involuntarily did the same.
Once in her grandfather's room, she would be safe.

i 9 7

It crept along the passage until it came to the very door
she longed so ardently to reach. The child, in the agony
of being so near, had almost darted forward with the de-
sign of bursting into the room and closing it behind her,
when the figure stopped again.

The idea flashed suddenly upon her — what if it entered
there, and had a design upon the old man's life ! She
turned faint and sick. It did. It went in. There was a
light inside. The figure was now within the chamber,
and she, still dumb — quite dumb, and almost senseless —
stood looking on.

The door was partly open. Not knowing what she
meant to do, but meaning to preserve him or be killed
herself, she staggered forward and looked in. What sight
was that which met her view !

The bed had not been lain on, but was smooth and
empty. And at a table sat the old man himself, the only
living creature there, his white face pinched and sharp-
ened by the greediness which made his eyes unnaturally
bright, counting the money of which his hands had robbed
her.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SIXTH.

With steps more faltering and unsteady than those
with which she had approached the room, the child with-
drew from the door, and groped her way back to her own
chamber. The terror she had lately felt was nothing com-
pared with that which now oppressed her. No strange
robber, no treacherous host conniving at the plunder of
his guests, or stealing to their beds to kill them in their
sleep, no nightly prowler, however terrible and cruel,
could have awakened in her bosom half the dread which
the recognition of her silent visitor inspired. The gray-

198

headed old man gliding like a ghost into her room and
acting the thief while he supposed her fast asleep, then
bearing off his prize and hanging over it with the ghastly
exultation she had witnessed, was worse — immeasurably
worse, and far more dreadful, for the moment, to reflect
upon — than anything her wildest fancy could have sug-
gested. If he should return — there was no lock or bolt
upon the door, and if, distrustful of having left some
money yet behind, he should come back to seek for more
— a vague awe and horror surrounded the idea of his
slinking in again with stealthy tread, and turning his face
toward the empty bed, while she shrank down close at his
feet to avoid his touch, which was almost insupportable.
She sat and listened. Hark ! A footstep on the stairs,
and now the door was slowly opening. It was but im-
agination, yet imagination had all the terrors of reality ;
nay, it was worse, for the reality would have come and
gone, and there an end, but in imagination it was always
coming, and never went away.

The feeling which beset the child was one of dim un-
certain horror. She had no fear of the dear old grand-
father, in whose love for her this disease of the brain had
been engendered ; but the man she had seen that night,
wrapped in the game of chance, lurking in her room, and
counting the money by the glimmering light, seemed like
another creature in his shape, a monstrous distortion of
his image, a something to recoil from, and be the more
afraid of, because it bore a likeness to him, and kept close
about her, as he did. She could scarcely connect her own
affectionate companion, save by his loss, with this old man,
so like yet so unlike him. She had wept to see him dull
and quiet. How much greater cause she had for weeping
now !

The child sat watching and thinking of these things,
until the phantom in her mind so increased in gloom and

199

terror, that she felt it would be a relief to hear the old
man's voice, or, if he were asleep, even to see him, and
banish some of the fears that clustered round his image.
She stole down the stairs and passage again. The door
was still ajar as she had left it, and the candle burning as
before.

She had her own candle in her hand, prepared to say, if
he were waking, that she was uneasy and could not rest,
and had come to see if his were still alight. Looking
into the room, she saw him lying calmly on his bed, and
so took courage to enter.

Fast asleep — no passion in the face, no avarice, no
anxiety, no wild desire ; all gentle, tranquil, and at peace.
This was not the gambler, or the shadow in her room ; this
was not even the worn and jaded man whose face had so
often met her own in the gray morning light ; this was her
dear old friend, her harmless fellow-traveler, her good,
kind grandfather.

She had no fear as she looked upon his slumbering fea-
tures, but she had a deep and weighty sorrow, and it found
its relief in tears.

" God bless him ! " said the child, stooping softly to
kiss his placid cheek. " I see too well now that they
would indeed part us if they found us out, and shut him
up from the light of the sun and sky. He has only me to
help him. God bless us both ! "

Lighting her candle, she retreated as silently as she had
come, and, gaining her own room once more, sat up dur-
ing the remainder of that long, long, miserable night.

At last the day turned her waning candle pale, and she
fell asleep. She was quickly roused by the girl who had
shown her up to bed ; and, as soon as she was dressed, pre-
pared to go down to her grandfather. But first she
searched her pocket and found that her money was all
gone — not a sixpence remained,

200

The old man was ready, and in a few seconds they were
on their road. The child thought he rather avoided her
eye, and appeared to expect that she would tell him of her
loss. She felt she must do that, or he might suspect the
truth.

" Grandfather," she said in a tremulous voice, after they
had walked about a mile in silence, " do you think they
are honest people at the house yonder?"

" Why ? " returned the old man trembling. " Do I think
them honest — yes, they played honestly."

" I'll tell you why I ask,", rejoined Nell. " I lost some
money last night — out of my bedroom I am sure. Unless
it was taken by somebody in jest — only in jest, dear
grandfather, which would make me laugh heartily if I
could but know it — "

" Who would take money in jest ? " returned the old
man in a hurried manner. " Those who take money, take
it to keep. Don't talk of jest.''

" Then it was stolen out of my room, dear," said the
child, whose last hope was destroyed by the manner of
this reply.

" But is there no more, Nell ? " said the old man ; " no
more anywhere ? Was it all taken — every farthing of it —
was there nothing left ? "

" Nothing," replied the child.

" We must get more," said the old man, " we must earn
it, Nell, hoard it up, scrape it together, come by it some-
how. Never mind this loss. Tell nobody of it, and per-
haps we may regain it. Don't ask how ; — we may regain
it, and a great deal more ; — but tell nobody, or trouble
may come of it. And so they took it out of thy room,
when thou wert asleep ! " he added in a compassionate
tone, very different from the secret, cunning way in which
he had spoken until now. " Poor Nell, poor little Nell ! "

The child hung down her head and wept. The sym-

201

pathizing tone in whibh he spoke was quite sincere ; she
was sure of that. It was not the lightest part of her sor-
row to know that this was done for her.

" Not a word about it to any one but me," said the old
man. " No, not even to me," he added hastily, " for it can
do no good. All the losses that ever were are not worth
tears from thy eyes, darling. Why should they be, when
we will win them back ? "

"Let them go," said the child looking up. "Let them
go, once and forever, and I would never shed another tear
if every penny had been a thousand pounds."

" Well, well," returned the old man, checking himself as
some impetuous answer rose to his lips, " she knows no
better. I ought to be thankful for it."

"But listen to me," said the child earnestly, "will you
listen to me ? "

" Ay, ay, I'll listen," returned the old man, still without
looking at her ; " a pretty voice. It has always a sweet
sound to me. It always had when it was her mother's,
poor child."

" Let me persuade you, then — oh, do let me persuade
you," said the child, " to think no more of gains or losses,
and to try no fortune but the fortune we pursue together."

" We pursue this aim together," retorted her grand-
father, still looking away and seeming to confer with him-
self. " Whose image sanctifies the game ? "

" Have we been worse off," resumed the child, " since
you forgot these cares, and we have been traveling on
together ? Have we not been much better and happier
without a home to shelter us, than ever we were in that
unhappy house, when they were on your mind ?"

" She speaks the truth," murmured the old man in the
same tone as before. " It must not turn me, but it is the
truth — no doubt it is."

" Only remember what we have been since that bright

202

morning when we turned our backs upon it for the last
time," said Nell, " only remember what we have been since
we have been free of all those miseries — what peaceful
days and quiet nights we have had — what pleasant times
we have known — what happiness we have enjoyed. If we
have been tired or hungry, we have been soon refreshed,
and slept the sounder for it. Think what beautiful things
we have seen, and how contented we have felt. And
why was this blessed change ? "

He stopped her with a motion of his hand, and bade her
talk to him no more just then, for he was busy. After a
time he kissed her cheek, still motioning her to silence,
and walked on, looking far before him, and sometimes stop-
ping and gazing with a puckered brow upon the ground,
as if he were painfully trying to collect his disordered
thoughts. Once she saw tears in his eyes. When he had
gone on thus for some time, he took her hand in his as
he was accustomed to do, with nothing of the violence or
animation of his late manner ; and so, by degrees so fine
that the child could not trace them, settled down into his
usual quiet way, and suffered her to lead him where she
would.

When they presented themselves in the midst of the
stupendous collection, they found, as Nell had anticipated,
that Mrs. Jarley was not yet out of bed, and that, al-
though she had suffered some uneasiness on their account
overnight, and had indeed sat up for them until past
eleven o'clock, she had retired in the persuasion, that, be-
ing overtaken by storm at some distance from home, they
had sought the nearest shelter, and would not return be-
,fore morning. Nell immediately applied herself with
great assiduity to the decoration and preparation of the
room, and had the satisfaction of completing her task, and
dressing herself neatly, before the beloved of the Royal
Family came down to breakfast,

20,3

" We haven't had," said Mrs. Jarley when the meal was
over, " more than eight of Miss Monflathers's young ladies
all the time we've, been here, and there's twenty-six of
'em, as I was told by the cook when I ask her a question
or two and put her on the free list. We must try 'em
with a parcel of new bills, and you shall take it, my dear,
and see what effect that has upon 'em."

The proposed expedition being one of paramount im-
portance, Mrs, Jarley adjusted Nell's bonnet with her own
hands, and declaring that she certainly did look very
pretty, and reflected credit on the establishment, dis-
missed her with many commendations, and certain need-
ful directions as to the turnings on the right which she
was to take, and the turnings on the left which she was to
avoid. Thus instructed, Nell had no difficulty in finding
out Miss Monflathers's Boarding and Day Establishment,
which was a large house, with a high wall, and a large
garden gate with a large brass plate, and a small grating
through which Miss Monflathers's parlor maid inspected
all visitors before admitting them ; for nothing in the
shape of a man — no, not even a milkman — was suffered,
without special license, to pass that gate. Even the tax
gatherer, who was stout, and wore spectacles and a broad-
brimmed hat, had the taxes handed through the grating.
More obdurate than gate of adamant or brass, this gate
of Miss Monflathers's frowned on all mankind. The very
butcher respected it as a gate of mystery, and left off whis-
tling when he rang the bell.

As Nell approached the awful door, it turned slowly upon
its hinges with a creaking noise, and forth from the solemn
grove beyond, came a long file of young ladies, two and
two, all with open books in their hands, and some with
parasols likewise. And last of the goodly procession came
Miss Monflathers, bearing herself a parasol of lilac silk,
and supported by two smiling teachers, each mortally
envious of the other, and devoted unto Miss Monflathers.

204

Confused by the looks and whispers of the girls, Nell
stood with downcast eyes and suffered the procession to
pass on, until Miss Monflathers, bringing up the rear, ap-
proached her, when she courtesied and presented her
little packet ; on receipt whereof Miss Monflathers com-
manded that the line should halt.

" You're the waxwork child, are you not ? " said Miss
Monflathers.

"Yes, ma'am," replied Nell, coloring deeply, for the
young ladies had collected about her, and she was the
center on which all eyes were fixed.

" And don't you think you must be a very wicked little
child," said Miss Monflathers, who was of rather uncer-
tain temper, and lost no opportunity of impressing moral
truths upon the tender minds of the young -ladies, " to be
a waxwork child at all ? "

Poor Nell had never viewed her position in this light,
and not knowing what to say, remained silent, blushing
more deeply than before.

" Don't you know," said Miss Monflathers, " that it's
very naughty and unfeminine, and a perversion of the
properties wisely and benignantly transmitted to us, with
expansive powers to be roused from their dormant state
through the medium of cultivation ? "

The two teachers murmured their respectful approval
of this home thrust, and looked at Nell as though they
would have said that there indeed Miss Monflathers had
hit her very hard. Then they smiled and glanced at Miss
Monflathers, and then, their eyes meeting, they ex-
changed looks which plainly said that each considered
herself smiler in ordinary to Miss Monflathers, and re-
garded the other as having no right to smile, and that
her so doing was an act of presumption and impertinence.

" Don't you feel how naughty it is of you," resumed
Miss Monflathers, "to be a waxwork child, when you

205

might have the proud consciousness of assisting, to the
extent of your infant powers, the manufactures of your
country ; of improving your mind by the constant con-
templation of the steam engine ; and of earning a comfort-
able and independent subsistence of from two-and-nine-
pence to three shillings per week ? Don't you know that
the harder you are at work, the happier you are ? "

" ' How doth the little — ' " murmured one of the teach-
ers, in quotation from Doctor Watts.

" Eh ? " said Miss Monfiathers, turning smartly round.
"Who said that?"

Of course the teacher who had not said it, indicated
the rival who had, whom Miss Monfiathers frowningly re-
quested to hold her peace ; by that means throwing the
informing teacher into raptures of joy.

" The little busy bee," said Miss Monfiathers, drawing
herself up, " is applicable only to genteel children.
' In books, or work, or healthful play '

is quite right as far as they are concerned ; and the work
means painting on velvet, fancy needlework, or embroi-
dery. In such cases as these," pointing to Nell, with her
parasol, " and in the case of all poor people's children, we
should read it thus : —

' In work, work, work. In work alway
Let my first years be past,
That I may give for ev'ry day
Some good account at last.' "

A deep hum of applause rose not only from the two
teachers, but from all the pupils, who were equally aston-
ished to hear Miss Monfiathers improvising after this
brilliant style ; for although she had been long known as
a politician, she had never appeared before as an original
poet. Just then somebody happened to discover that Nell
was crying, and all eyes were again turned towards her.

206

There were indeed tears in her eyes, and drawing out
her handkerchief to brush them away, she happened to
let it fall. Before she could stoop to pick it up, one
young lady of about fifteen or sixteen, who had been
standing a little apart from the others, as though she had
no recognized place among them, sprang forward and put
it in her hand. She was gliding timidly away again, when
she was arrested by the governess.

" It was Miss Edwards who did that, I know," said Miss
Monfiathers predictively. " Now I am sure that was Miss
Edwards."

It was Miss Edwards, and everybody said it was Miss
Edwards, and Miss Edwards herself admitted that it was.

" Is it not," said Miss Monfiathers, putting down her
parasol to take a severer view of the offender, " a most re-
markable thing, Miss Edwards, that you have an attach-
ment to the lower classes which always draws you to
their sides ; or, rather, is it not a most extraordinary
thing that all I say and do will not wean you from pro-
pensities which your original station in life have unhap-
pily rendered habitual to you, you extremely vulgar-
minded girl ? "

" I really intended no harm, ma'am," said a sweet voice.
"It was a momentary impulse, indeed."

" An impulse ! " repeated Miss Monfiathers scornfully.
" I wonder that you presume to speak of impluses to me ; "
— both the teachers assented — " I am astonished ; " — both
the teachers were astonished — " I suppose it is an impulse
which induces you to take the part of every groveling
and debased person that comes in your way ; '' — both the
teachers supposed so too.

"But I would have you know, Miss Edwards," resumed
the governess in a tone of increased severity, "that you
cannot be permitted — if it be only for the sake of preserv-
ing a proper example and decorum in this establishment —

207

that you cannot be permitted, and that you shall not be
permitted, to fly in the face of your superiors in this
exceedingly gross manner. If you have no reason to feel
a becoming pride before waxwork children, there are
young ladies here who have, and you must either defer to
those young ladies or leave the establishment, Miss
Edwards."

This young lady, being motherless and poor, was
apprenticed at the school — taught for nothing — teaching
others what she learned, for nothing — boarded for nothing
— lodged for nothing — and set down and rated as some-
thing immeasurably less than nothing, by all the dwellers
in the house. The servant maids felt her inferiority, for
they were better treated ; free to come and go, and regarded
in their stations with much more respect. The teachers
were infinitely superior, for they had paid to go to school
in their time, and were paid now. The pupils cared little
for a companion who had no grand stories to tell about
home ; no friends to come with post horses, and be
received in all humility, with cake and wine, by the
governess ; no deferential servant to attend and bear her
home for the holidays ; nothing genteel to talk about,
and nothing to display. But why was Miss Monflathers
always vexed and irritated with the poor apprentice — how
did that come to pass ?

Why, the gayest feather in Miss Monflathers's cap and
the brightest glory of Miss Monflathers's school was a
baronet's daughter — the real, live daughter of a real, live
baronet — who, by some extraordinary reversal of the
Laws of Nature, was not only plain in features but dull in
intellect, while the poor apprentice had both a ready wit,
and a handsome face and figure. It seems incredible.
Here was Miss Edwards, who only paid a small premium
which had been spent long ago, every day outshining and
excelling the baronet's daughter, who learned all the

2o8

extras (or was taught them all), and whose half-yearly
bill came to double that of any other young lady's in the
school, making no account of the honor and reputation
of her pupilage. Therefore, and because she was a de-
pendent, Miss Monflathers had a great dislike to Miss
Edwards, and was spiteful to her, and aggravated by her,
and, when she had compassion on little Nell, verbally fell
upon and maltreated her as we have already seen.

" You will not take the air to-day, Miss Edwards," said
Miss Monflathers. " Have the goodness to retire to your
own room, and not to leave it without permission."

The poor girl was moving hastily away, when she was
suddenly, in nautical phrase, " brought to " by a subdued
shriek from Miss Monflathers.

" She has passed me without any salute ! " cried the
governess, raising her eyes to the sky. " She has actually
passed me without the slightest acknowledgment of my
presence ! "

The young lady turned and courtesied. Nell could see
that she raised her dark eyes to the face of her superior,
and that their expression, and that of her whole. attitude
for the instant, was one of mute but most touching appeal
against this ungenerous usage. Miss Monflathers only
tossed her head in reply, and the great gate closed upon a
bursting heart.

" As for you, you wicked child," said Miss Monflathers,
turning to Nell, " tell your mistress that if she presumes
to take the liberty of sending to me any more, i will write
to the legislative authorities and have her put in the
stocks, or compelled to do penance in a white sheet ; and
you may depend upon it that you shall certainly experi-
ence the treadmill if you dare to come here again. Now,
ladies, on."

The procession filed off, two and two, with the books
and parasols, and Miss Monflathers, calling the baronet's

209

daughter to walk with her and smooth her ruffled feelings,
discarded the two teachers — who by this time had ex-
changed their smiles for looks of sympathy — and left them
to bring up the rear, and hate each other a little more for
being obliged to walk together.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SEVENTH.

Mrs. Jarley's wrath, on first learning that she had been
threatened with the indignity of stocks and penance,
passed all description. The genuine and only Jarley ex-
posed to public scorn, jeered by children, and flouted by
beadles ! The delight of the Nobility and Gentry shorn
of a bonnet which a Lady Mayoress might have sighed to
wear, and arrayed in a white sheet as a spectacle of
mortification and humility ! And Miss Monflathers, the
audacious creature who presumed, even in the dimmest
and remotest distance of her imagination, to conjure up
the degrading picture, " I am a'most inclined," said Mrs.
Jarley, bursting with the fullness of her anger and the
weakness of her means of revenge, " to turn atheist when
I think of it !

" For which of us is best off, I wonder," quoth Mrs.
Jarley, " she or me ! It's only talking, when all is said
and done, and if she talks of me in the stocks, why I can
talk of her in the stocks, which is a good deal funnier if
we come to that. Lord, what does it matter, after all ! "

Having arrived at this comfortable frame of mind, Mrs.
Jarley consoled Nell with many kind words, and requested
as a personal favor that whenever she thought of Miss
Monflathers she would do nothing else but laugh at her,
all the days of her life.

So ended Mrs. Jarley's wrath, which subsided long be-
fore the going down of the sun. Nell's anxieties, how-

Littlc Nell— 14.

2IO

ever, were of a deeper kind, and the checks they imposed
upon her cheerfulness were not so easily removed.

That evening, as she had dreaded, her grandfather stole
away, and did not come back until the night was far spent.
Worn out as she was, and fatigued in mind and body, she
sat up alone, counting the minutes, until he returned —
penniless, broken-spirited, and wretched, but still hotly
bent upon his infatuation.

" Get me money," he said wildly, as they parted for
the night. " I must have money, Nell. It shall be paid
thee back with gallant interest one day, but all the money
that comes unto thy hands, must be mine — not for myself,
but to use for thee. Remember, Nell, to use for thee 1 "

What could the child do, with the knowledge she had,
but give him every penny that came into her hands, lest
he should be tempted on to rob their benefactress ? If
she told the truth (so thought the child) he would be
treated as a madman ; if she did not supply him with
money, he would supply himself ; supplying him, she fed
the fire that burned him up, and put him perhaps beyond
recovery. Distracted by these thoughts, borne down by
the weight of the sorrow which she dared not tell, tor-
tured by a crowd of apprehensions whenever the old man
was absent, and dreading alike his stay and his return, the
color forsook her cheek, her eye grew dim, and her heart
was oppressed and heavy. All her old sorrows had come
back upon her, augmented by new fears and doubts ; by
day they were ever present to her mind ; by night they
hovered round her pillow, and haunted her in dreams.

It was natural that, in the midst of her affliction, she
should often revert to that sweet young lady of whom she
had only caught a hasty glance, but whose sympathy, ex-
pressed in one slight brief action, dwelt in her memory
like the kindnesses of years. She would often think, if
she had such a friend as that to whom to tell her griefs,

211

how much lighter her heart would be — that if she were
but free to hear that voice, she would be happier. Then
she would wish that she were something better, that she
were not quite so poor and humble, that she dared address
her without fearing a repulse ; and then feel that there
was an immeasurable distance between them, and have no
hope that the young lady thought of her any more.

It was now holiday time at the schoois, and the young
ladies had gone home, and Miss Monflathers was
reported to be flourishing in London and damaging the
hearts of middle-aged gentlemen, but nobody said any-
thing about Miss Edwards, whether she had gone home,
or whether she had any home to go to, whether she was
still at the school, or anything about her. But one even-
ing, as Nell was returning from a lonely walk, she
happened to pass the inn where the stage coaches
stopped, just as one drove up, and there was the beauti-
ful girl she so well remembered, pressing forward to
embrace a young child whom they were helping down
from the roof.

Well, this was her sister, her little sister, much younger
than Nell, whom she had not seen (so the story went
afterwards) for five years, and to bring whom to that
place on a short visit, she had been saving her poor means
all that time. Nell felt as if her heart would break when
she saw them meet. They went a little apart from the
knot of people who had congregated about the coach,
and fell upon each other's neck, and sobbed, and wept
with joy. Their plain and simple dress, the distance
which the child had come alone, their agitation and
delight, and the tears they shed, would have told their
history by themselves.

They became a little more composed in a short time,
and went away, not so much hand in hand as clinging to
each other. " Are you sure you're happy, sister ? " said

212

the child as they passed where Nell was standing.
" Quite happy now," she answered. " But always ? " said
the child. "Ah, sister, why do you turn away your
face?"

Nell could" not help following at a little distance.
They went to the house of an old nurse, where the elder
sister had engaged a bedroom for the child. " I shall
come to you early every morning," she said, " and we can
be together all the day." — "Why not at nighttime too?
.Dear sister, would they be angry with you for that?"

Why were the eyes of little Nell wet, that night, with

tears like those of the two sisters ? Why did she bear a

grateful heart because they had met, and feel it pain to

think that they would shortly part ? Let us not believe

'*) that any selfish reference — unconscious though it might

have been — to her own trials awoke this sympathy, but

\ thank God that the innocent joys of others can strongly

1 move us, and that we, even in our fallen nature, have one

source of pure emotion which must be prized in Heaven !

By morning's cheerful glow, but oftener still by even-
ing's gentle light, the child, with a respect for the short
and happy intercourse of these two sisters which forbade
her to approach and say a thankful word, although she
yearned to do so, followed them at a distance in their
walks and rambles, stopping when they stopped, sitting
on the grass when they sat down, rising when they went
on, and feeling, it a companionship and delight to be so
near them. Their evening walk was by the river's side.
Here, every night, the child . was too, unseen by them,
unthought of, unregarded ; but feeling as if they were
her friends, as if they had confidences and trusts together,
as if her load were lightened and less hard to bear ; as if
they mingled their sorrows, and found mutual consolation.
It was a weak fancy perhaps, the childish fancy of a
young and lonely creature ; but night after night, and

213

still the sisters loitered in the same place, and still the
child followed with a mild and softened heart.

She was much startled, on returning home one night,
to find that Mrs. Jarley had commanded an announcement
to be prepared, to the effect that the stupendous collec-
tion would only remain in its present quarters one day
longer ; in fulfillment of which threat (for all announce-
ments connected with public amusements are well known
to be irrevocable and most exact), the stupendous collec-
tion shut up next day.

" Are we going from this place directly, ma'am ? " said
Nell.

" Look here, child," returned Mrs. Jarley, " that'll
inform you." And so saying, Mrs. Jarley produced
another announcement, wherein it was stated, that, in
consequence of numerous inquiries-at the waxwork door,
and in consequence of crowds having been disappointed in
obtaining admission, the Exhibition would be continued
for one week longer, and would reopen next day.

" For now that the schools are gone, and the regular
sight-seers exhausted," said Mrs. Jarley, "we come to*
the general public, and they want stimulating."

Upon the following day at noon, Mrs. Jarley established
herself behind the highly ornamented table, attended by
the distinguished effigies before mentioned, and ordered
the doors to be thrown open for the readmission of a dis-
cerning and enlightened public. But the first day's oper-
ations were by no means of a successful character, inas-
much as the general public, though they manifested a
lively interest in Mrs. Jarley personally, and such of her
waxen satellites as were to be seen for nothing, were not
affected by any impulses moving them to the payment of
sixpence a head. Thus, notwithstanding that a great
many people continued to stare at the entry and the
figures therein displayed, and remained there with great

214

perseverance, by the hour at a time, to hear the barrel
organ played and to read the bills ; and notwithstanding
that they were kind enough to recommend their friends
to patronize the exhibition in the like manner, until the
doorway was regularly blockaded by half the population
of the town, who, when they went off duty, were relieved
by the other half ; it was not found that the treasury was
the richer, or that the prospects of the establishment were
any at all encouraging.

In this depressed state of the classical market, Mrs.
Jarley made extraordinary efforts to stimulate the popu-
lar taste, and whet the popular curiosity. The two carters
constantly passed in and out of the exhibition room,
under various disguises, protesting aloud that the sight
was better worth the money than anything they had
beheld in all their lives, and urging the bystanders, with
tears in their eyes, not to neglect such a brilliant gratifi-
cation. Mrs. Jarley sat in the pay place, chinking silver
moneys from noon till night, and solemnly calling upon
the crowd to take notice that the price of admission was
only sixpence, and that the departure of the whole collec-
tion, on a short tour among the Crowned Heads of
Europe, was positively fixed for that day week.

" So be in time, be in time, be in time," said Mrs.
Jarley, at the close of every such address. " Remember
that this is Jarley's stupendous collection of upwards of
one hundred figures, and that it is the only collection in
the world ; all others being imposters and deceptions.
Be in time, be in time, be in time ! "

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-EIGHTH.

Kit — for it happens at this juncture, not only that we
have breathing time to follow his fortunes, but that the

2IJ

necessities of these adventures so adapt themselves to
our ease and inclination as to call upon us imperatively to
pursue the track we most desire to take — Kit was, as the
reader may suppose, gradually familiarizing himself more
and more with Mr. and Mrs. Garland, Mr. Abel, the pony,
and Barbara, and gradually coming to consider them one
and all as his particular private friends, and Abel Cottage,
Finchley, as his own proper home.

Stay — the words are written, and may go, but if they
convey any notion that Kit, in the plentiful board and
comfortable lodging of his new abode, began to think
slightingly of the poor fare and furniture of his old
dwelling, they do their office badly and commit injustice.
Who so mindful of those he left at home — albeit they
were but a mother and two young babies — as Kit ? What
boastful father in the fullness of his heart ever related
such wonders of his infant prodigy, as Kit never wearied
of telling Barbara in the evening time, concerning little
Jacob ? Was there ever such a mother as Kit's mother,
on her son's showing ; or was there ever such comfort in
poverty as in the poverty of Kit's family, if any correct
judgment might be arrived at, from his own glowing
account!

Sometimes, being in the neighborhood, he had leisure
to call upon her, and then great was the joy and pride of
Kit's mother, and extremely noisy the satisfaction of little
Jacob and the baby, and cordial the congratulations of the
whole court, who listened with admiring ears to the
accounts of Abel Cottage, and could never be told too
much of its wonders and magnificence.

Although Kit was in the very highest favor with the
old lady and gentleman, and Mr. Abel, and Barbara, it is
certain that no member of the family evinced such a
remarkable partiality for him as the self-willed pony, who,
from being the most obstinate and opinionated pony on

2l6

the face of the earth, was in his hands the meekest and
most tractable of animals. It is true that in exact pro-
portion as he became manageable by Kit he became
utterly ungovernable by anybody else (as if he had deter-
mined to keep him in the family at all risks and hazards),
and that, even under the guidance of his favorite, he
would sometimes perform a great variety of strange
freaks and capers, to the extreme discomposure of the old
lady's nerves ; but as Kit always represented that this
was only his fun, or a way he had of showing his attach-
ment to his employers, Mrs. Garland gradually suffered
herself to be persuaded into the belief, in which she at
last became so strongly confirmed that if in one of these
ebullitions he had overturned the chaise, she would have
been quite satisfied that he did it with the very best
intentions.

Besides becoming in a short time a perfect marvel in all
stable matters, Kit soon made himself a very tolerable
gardener, a handy fellow within doors, and an indispen-
sable attendant on Mr. Abel, who every day gave him
some new proof of his confidence and approbation. Mr.
Witherden, the notary, too, regarded him with a friendly
eye; and even Mr. Chuckster would sometimes condescend
to give him a slight nod, or to honor him with that pecu-
liar form of recognition which is called " taking a sight,"
or to favor him with some other salute combining
pleasantry with patronage.

One morning Kit drove Mr. Abel to the notary's office,
as he sometimes did, and having set him down at the
house, was about to drive off to a livery stable hard by,
when this same Mr. Chuckster emerged from the office
door, and cried " Woa-a-a-a-a-a ! " — dwelling upon the
note a long time, for the purpose of striking terror into
the pony's heart, and asserting the supremacy of man
over the inferior animals,

217

"Pull up, Snobby," cried Mr. Chuckster, addressing
himself to Kit. " You're wanted inside here."

" Has Mr. Abel forgotten anything, I wonder ? " said
Kit as he dismounted.

'-' Ask no questions, Snobby," returned Mr. Chuckster,
" but go and see. Woa-a-a then, will you ? If that pony
was mine, I'd break him."

"You must be very gentle with him, if you please," said
Kit, " or you'll find him troublesome. You'd better not
keep on pulling his ears, please. I know he won't like it.''

To this remonstrance Mr. Chuckster deigned no other
answer, than addressing Kit with a lofty and distant air
as "young feller," and requesting him to cut and come
again with all speed. The "young feller" complying,
Mr. Chuckster put his hands in his pockets, and tried to
look as if he were not minding the pony, but happened to
be lounging there by accident.

Kit scraped his shoes very carefully (for he had not yet
lost his reverence for the bundles of papers and the tin
boxes), and tapped at the office door, which was quickly
opened by the notary himself.

" Oh ! come in, Christopher," said Mr. Witherden.

" Is that the lad ? " asked an elderly gentleman, but of
a stout, bluff figure, who was in the room.

" That's the lad," said Mr. Witherden. " He fell in
with my client, Mr. Garland, Sir, at this very door. I
have reason to think he is a good lad, Sir, and that you
may believe what he says. Let me introduce Mr. Abel
Garland, Sir — his young master ; my articled pupil, Sir,
and most particular friend. My most particular friend,
Sir," repeated the notary, drawing out his silk handker-
chief and flourishing it about his face.

"Your servant, Sir," said the stranger gentleman.

" Yours, Sir, I'm sure," replied Mr. Abel mildly. " You
were wishing to speak to Christopher, Sir?"

218

" Yes, I was. Have I your permission ?"

" By all means.''

" My business is no secret ; or I should rather say it
need be no secret here," said the stranger, observing that
Mr. Abel and the notary were preparing to retire. " It
relates to a dealer in curiosities with whom he lived, and
in whom I am earnestly and warmly interested. I have
been a stranger to this country, gentlemen, for very.many
years, and if I am deficient in form and ceremony, I hope
you will forgive me."

"No forgiveness is necessary, Sir; — none whatever,"
replied the notary, and so said Mr. Abel.

" I have been making inquiries in the neighborhood in
which his old master lived," said the stranger, " and I
learned that'he had been served by this lad. I found out
his mother's house, and was directed by her to this place
as the nearest in which I should be likely to find him.
That's the cause of my presenting myself here this morn-
ing."

" I am very glad of any cause, Sir," said the notary,
" which procures me the honor of this visit."

" Sir," retorted the stranger, " you speak like a mere
man of the world, and I think you something better.
Therefore, pray do not sink your real character in paying
unmeaning compliments to me."

" Hem ! " coughed the notary. " You're a plain speaker,
Sir."

" And a plain dealer," returned the stranger. " It may
be my long absence and inexperience that lead me to the
conclusion, but if plain speakers are scarce in this part of
the world, I fancy that plain dealers are still scarcer. If
my speaking should offend you, Sir, my dealing, I hope,
will make amends."

Mr. Witherden seemed a little disconcerted by the
elderly gentleman's mode of conducting the dialogue ; and

219

as for Kit, he looked at him in open-mouthed astonishment,
wondering what kind of language he would address to him,
if he talked in that free and easy way to a notary. It was
with no harshness, however, though with something of
constitutional irritability and haste, that he turned to Kit
and said :

" If you think, my lad, that I am pursuing these inquiries
with any other view than that of serving and reclaiming
those I am in search of, you do me a very great wrong,
and deceive yourself. Don't be deceived, I beg of you,
but rely upon my assurance. The fact is, gentlemen," he
added, turning again to the notary and his pupil, " that I
am in a very painful and wholly unexpected position.
I came to this city with a darling object at my heart, ex-
pecting to find no obstacle or difficulty in the way of its
attainment. I find myself suddenly checked and stopped
short in the execution of my design, by a mystery which
I cannot penetrate. Every effort I have made to penetrate
it has only served to render it darker and more obscure ;
and I am afraid to stir openly in the matter, lest those
whom I anxiously pursue should fly still farther from me.
I assure you that if you could give me any assistance, you
would not be sorry to do so, if you knew how greatly I
stand in need of it, and what a load it would relieve me
from."

There was a simplicity in this confidence which occa-
sioned it to find a quick response in the breast of the good-
natured notary, who replied, in the same spirit, that the
stranger had not mistaken his desire, and that if he could
be of service to him, he would most readily.

Kit was then put under examination and closely ques-
tioned by the unknown gentleman touching his old master
and the child, their lonely way of life, their retired habits,
and strict seclusion. The nightly absence of the old man,
the solitary existence of the child at those times, his illness

220

and recovery, Quilp's possession of the house, and their
sudden disappearance, were all the subjects of much
questioning and answer. Finally, Kit informed the gentle-
man that the premises were now to let, and that a board
upon the door referred all inquirers to Mr. Sampson Brass,
Solicitor, of Bevis Marks, from whom he might perhaps
learn some further particulars.

" Not by inquiry," said the gentleman shaking his head.
" I live there."

" Live at Brass's the attorney's. ! " cried Mr. Witherden
in some surprise, having professional knowledge of the
gentleman in question.

" Ay," was the reply. " I entered upon his lodgings
t'other day, chiefly because I had seen this very board.
It matters little to me where I live, and I had a desperate
hope that some intelligence might be cast in my way there,
which would not reach me elsewhere. Yes, I live at
Brass's — more shame for me, I suppose ? "

" That's a mere matter of opinion," said the notary,
shrugging his shoulders. " He is looked upon as rather a
doubtful character."

" Doubtful ? " echoed the other. " I am glad to hear
there's any doubt about it. I supposed that had been
thoroughly settled, long ago. But will you let me speak
a word or two with you in private ? "

Mr. Witherden consenting, they walked into that gentle-
man's private closet, and remained there in close conver-
sation for some quarter of an hour, when they returned
into the outer office. The stranger had left his hat in Mr.
Witherden's room and seemed to have established himself
in this short interval on quite a friendly footing.

"I'll not detain you any longer now," he said, putting
a crown into Kit's hand, and looking towards the notary.
" You shall hear from me again. Not a word of this, you
know, except to your master and mistress."

221

" Mother, Sir, would be glad to know — " said Kit, falter-
ing.

" Glad to know what ? "

" Anything — so that it was no harm — about Miss Nell."

" Would she ? Well then, you may tell her if she can
keep a secret. But mind, not a word of this to anybody
else. Don't forget that. Be particular."

" I'll take care, Sir," said Kit. " Thankee, Sir, and
good morning."

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-NINTH.

All that day, though he waited for Mr. Abel until
evening, Kit kept clear of his mother's house, determined
not to anticipate by the slightest approach the pleasures
of the morrow, but to let them come in their full rush of
delight ; for to-morrow was the great and long looked-for
epoch in his life — to-morrow was the end of his first
quarter — the day of receiving for the first time one fourth
of his annual income of six pounds in one vast sum of
thirty shillings — to-morrow was to be a half holiday de-
voted to a whirl of entertainments, and little Jacob was to
know what oysters meant, and to see a play.

All manner of incidents combined in favor of the oc-
casion : not only had Mr. and Mrs. Garland forewarned
him that they intended to make no deduction for his out-
fit from the great amount, but to pay it him unbroken in
all its gigantic grandeur ; not only had the unknown
gentleman increased the stock by the sum of five shill-
ings, which was a perfect godsend and in itself a fortune ;
not only had these things come to pass which nobody
could have calculated upon, or in their wildest dreams
have hoped ; but it was Barbara's quarter too — Barbara's
quarttr, that very day — and Barbara had a half holiday as

222

well as Kit, and Barbara's mother was going to make one
of the party, and to take tea with Kit's mother, and culti-
vate her acquaintance.

To be sure Kit looked out of his window very early that
morning to see which way the clouds were flying, and to
be sure Barbara would have been at hers, too, if she had
not sat up so late overnight, starching and ironing small
pieces of muslin, and crimping them into frills, and sewing
them on to other pieces to form magnificent wholes for
next day's wear. But they were both up very early for
all that, and had small appetites for breakfast and less
for dinner, and were in a state of great excitement when
Barbara's mother came in with astonishing accounts of
the fineness of the weather out of doors (but with a very
large umbrella notwithstanding, for people like Barbara's
mother seldom make holiday without one), and when the
bell rang for them to go upstairs and receive their
quarter's money in gold and silver.

Well, wasn't Mr. Garland kind when he said " Christo-
pher, here's your money, and you have earned it well ; "
and wasn't Mrs. Garland kind when she said " Barbara,
here's yours, and I'm much pleased with you ; " and
didn't Kit sign his name bold to his receipt, and didn't
Barbara sign her name all a trembling to hers ; and wasn't
there plenty of laughing and talking among them as they
reviewed all these matters upon the top of the coach ;
and didn't they pity the people who hadn't got a holiday !

But Kit's mother, again — wouldn't anybody have sup-
posed she had come of a good stock and been a lady all
her life ? There she was, quite ready to receive them,
with a display of tea things that might have warmed the
heart of a china shop ; and little Jacob and the baby in
such a state of perfection that their clothes looked as
good as new, though Heaven knows they were old
enough ! Didn't she say before they had sat down five

223

minutes that Barbara's mother was exactly the sort of
lady she expected, and didn't Barbara's mother say that
Kit's mother was the very picture of what she had ex-
pected, and didn't Kit's mother compliment Barbara's
mother on Barbara, and didn't Barbara's mother compli-
ment Kit's mother on Kit, and wasn't Barbara herself
quite fascinated with little Jacob, and did ever a child
show off when he was wanted, as that child did, or make
such friends as he made ?

" And we are both widows too ! " said Barbara's
mother. "We must have been made to know each
other."

" I haven't a doubt about it," returned Mrs. Nubbles.
" And what a pity it is we didn't know each other sooner."

" But then you know it's such a pleasure,'' said Bar-
bara's mother, " to have it brought about by one's son
and daughter, that it's fully made up for, now, an't it ?"

To this, Kit's mother yielded her full assent, and trac-
ing things back from effects to causes, they naturally re-
verted to their deceased husbands, respecting whose
lives, deaths, and burials they compared notes, and dis-
covered sundry circumstances that tallied with wonderful
exactness ; such as Barbara's father having been exactly
four years and ten months older than Kit's father, and
one of them having died on a Wednesday and the other
on a Thursday, and both of them having been of a very
fine make and remarkably good-looking, with other ex-
traordinary coincidences. These recollections being of a
kind calculated to cast a shadow on the brightness of the
holiday, Kit diverted the conversation to general topics,
and they were soon in great force again, and as merry as
before. Among other things, Kit told them about his old
place, and the extraordinary beauty of Nell (of whom he
had talked to Barbara a thousand times already) ; but
the last named circumstance failed to interest his hearers

224

to anything like the extent he had supposed, and even his
mother said (looking accidentally at Barbara at the same
time) that there was no doubt Miss Nell was very pretty,
but she was but a child after all, and there were many
young women quite as pretty as she ; and Barbara mildly
observed that she should think so, and that she never
could help believing Mr. Christopher must be under a
mistake — which Kit wondered at very much, not being
able to conceive what reason she had for doubting him.
Barbara's mother, too, observed that it was very common
for young folks to change at about fourteen or fifteen,
and whereas they had been very pretty before, to grow
up quite plain ; which truth she illustrated by many forci-
ble examples, especially one of a young man who, being a
builder with great prospects, had been particular in his
attentions to Barbara, but whom Barbara would have
nothing to say to ; which (though everything happened
for the best) she almost thought was a pity. Kit said
he thought so too, and so he did honestly, and he won-
dered what made Barbara so silent all at once, and why
his mother looked at him as if he shouldn't have said it.
However, it was high time now to be thinking of the
play ; for which great preparation was required in the
way of shawls and bonnets, not to mention one handker-
chief full of oranges and another of apples, which took
some time tying up, in consequence of the fruit having a
tendency to roll out at the corners. At length every-
thing was ready, and they went off very fast ; Kit's
mother carrying the baby, who was dreadfully wide
awake, and Kit holding little Jacob in one hand, and es-
corting Barbara with the other — a state of things which
occasioned the two mothers, who walked behind, to de-
clare that they looked quite family folks, and caused Bar-
bara to blush and say, "Now don't, mother ! " But Kit
said she had no call to mind what they said ; and indeed

225

she need not have had, if she had known how very far
from Kit's thoughts any love-making was. Poor Barbara !

At last they got to the theater, which was Astley's :
and in some two minutes after they had reached the yet
unopened door, little Jacob was squeezed flat, and the
baby had received divers concussions, and Barbara's
mother's umbrella had been carried several yards off and
passed back to her over the shoulders of the people, and
Kit had hit a man on the head with the handkerchief of
appltis for "scrowdging" his parent with unneccessary
violence, and there was a great uproar. But when they
were once past the pay place and tearing away for very
life with their checks in their hands ; and above all, when
they were fairly in the theater, and seated in such places
that they couldn't have had better if they had picked
them out and taken them beforehand ; all this was looked
upon as quite a capital joke, and an essential part of the
entertainment.

Dear, dear, what a place it looked, that Astley's ! with
all the paint, gilding, and looking-glass ; the vague smell
of horses suggestive of coming wonders ; the curtain that
hid such gorgeous mysteries ; the clean, white sawdust
down in the circus ; the company coming in and taking
their places ; the fiddlers looking carelessly up at them
while they tuned their instruments, as if they didn't want
the play to begin, and knew it all beforehand ! What a
glow was that which burst upon them all, when that long,
clear, brilliant row of lights came slowly up ; and what
the feverish excitement when the little bell rang and the
music began in good earnest, with strong parts for the
drums, and sweet effects for the triangles ! Well might
Barbara's mother say to Kit's mother that the gallery was
the place to see from, and wonder it wasn't much dearer
than the boxes ; and well might Barbara feel doubtful
whether to laugh or cry, in her flutter of delight.

Little Ndl.—\ 5.

226

Then the play itself ! the horses which little Jacob
believed from the first to be alive, and- the ladies and
gentlemen of whose reality he could be by no means
persuaded, having never seen or heard anything at all like
them — the firing, which made Barbara wink— the forlorn
lady, who made her cry — the tyrant, who made ' her
tremble — the man who sang the song with the lady's maid
and danced the chorus, who made her laugh — the pony
who reared up on his hind legs when he saw the murderer,
and wouldn't hear of walking on all fours again until he
was taken into custody — the clown who ventured on such
familiarities with the military man in boots — the lady who
jumped over the nine-and-twenty ribbons and came down
safe upon the horse's back^-every thing was delightful,
splendid, and surprising. Little Jacob applauded till his
hands were sore ; Kit cried " an-kor " at the end of every-
thing, the three act piece included ; and Barbara's mother
beat her umbrella on th^ floor, in her ecstasies, until it
was nearly worn down to the gingham.

In the midst of all these fascinations, Barbara's thoughts
seemed to have*been still runriing upon what Kit had
said at tea time ; for when they were coming out of the
play, she asked him, with an hysterical simper, if Miss Nell
was as handsome as the lady who jumped over the ribbojis.

" As handsome as her ? " said Kit. " Double as hand-
some."

" Oh, Christopher ! I'm sure she was the beautifulest
creature ever was," said Barbara.

" Nonsense ! " returned Kit. " She was well enough,
I don't deny that ; but think how she was dressed and
painted, and what' a difference that made. Why you are
a good deal better looking than her, Barbara."

" Oh, Christopher ! " said Barbara, looking down.

" You are, any day," said Kit, — " and so's your mother."
Poor Barbara !

227

What was all this though— even all this — to the extraor-
dinary dissipation that ensued, when Kit, walking into
an oyster shop as bold as if he lived there, and not so
much as looking at the counter or the man behind it, led
his party into a box — a private box, fitted up with red cur-
tains, white tablecloth, and cruet stand complete — and
ordered a fierce gentleman with whiskers, who acted as
waiter and called him, Christopher Nubbles, " Sir," to
bring three dozen of his largest sized oysters, and to look
sharp about it ! Yes, Kit told this gentleman to look
sharp, and he not only said he would look sharp, but he
actually did, and presently came running back with the
newest loaves, and the freshest butter, and the largest oys-
ters, ever seen. And both Kit's mother and Barbara's
mother declared as he turned away that he was one of the
slimmest and gracefulest young men she had ever looked
upon.

Then they fell to work upon the supper in earnest ; and
there was Barbara, that foolish Barbara, declaring that
she couldn't eat more than two, and wanting more press-
ing than you would believe before she would eat four ;
though her mother and Kit's mother made up for it pretty .
well, and ate and laughed and enjoyed themselves so
thoroughly that it did Kit good to see them, and made
him laugh and eat likewise from strong sympathy. But
the greatest miracle of the night was little Jacob, who ate*
oysters as if he had been born and bred to the business,
sprinkled the pepper and the,, vinegar with a discretion be-
yond his years, and afterwards built a grotto on the table
with the shells. There was the baby, too, who had never
closed an eye all night, but had sat as good as gold, try-
ing to force a large orange into his mouth, and gazing
intently at the lights in the chandelier — there he was,
sitting up in his mother's lap, staring at the gas without
winking, and making indentations in his soft visage with

228

an oyster shell, to that degree that a heart of iron must
have loved him ! In short, there never was a more suc-
cessful supper.

But all happiness has an end — hence the chief pleasure
of its next beginning — and as it was now growing late,
they agreed it was time to turn their faces homewards.
So, after going a little out of their way to see Barbara
and Barbara's mother safe to a friend's house where they
were to pass the night, Kit and his mother left them at the
door, with an early appointment for returning to Finch-
ley next morning, and a great many plans for next quarter's
enjoyment. Then Kit took little Jacob on his back,
and giving his arm to his mother, and a kiss to the baby,
they all trudged merrily home together.

CHAPTER THE THIRTIETH.

Full of that vague kind of penitence which holidays
awaken next morning, Kit turned out at sunrise, and, with
his faith in last night's enjoyments a little shaken by cool
daylight and the return to everyday duties and occu-
pations, went to meet Barbara and her mother at the ap-
pointed place. And being careful not to awaken any of the
little household, who were yet resting from their unusual
fatigues, Kit left his money on the chimney piece, with an
inscription in chalk calling his mother's attention to the
circumstance, and informing her that it came from her
dutiful son ; and went his way, with a heart something
heavier than his pockets, but free from any very great op-
pression notwithstanding.

Who will wonder that Barbara had a headache, or that
Barbara's mother was disposed to be cross, or that she
slightly underrated Astley's, and thought the clown was
older than they had taken him to be last night ? Kit was

229

not surprised to hear her say so — not he. He had already
had a misgiving that the inconstant actors in that dazzling
vision had been doing the same thing the night before
last, and would do it again that night, and the next, and
for weeks and months to come, though he would not be
there. Such is the difference between yesterday and to-
day. We are all going to the play, or coming home from
it.

However, the Sun. himself is weak when he first rises,
and gathers strength and courage as the day gets on. By
degrees, they began to recall circumstances more and
more pleasant in their nature, until, what between talking,
walking, and laughing, they reached Finchley in such
good heart, that Barbara's mother declared she never felt
less tired or in better spirits, and so said Kit. Barbara
had been silent all the way, but she said so, too. Poor
little Barbara ! she was very quiet.

They were at home in such good time that Kit had
rubbed down the pony and made him as spruce as a race
horse, before Mr. Garland came down to breakfast ;
which punctual and industrious conduct the old lady, and
the old gentleman, and Mr. Abel highly extolled. At his
usual hour (or rather at his usual minute and second, for
he was the soul of punctuality) Mr. Abel walked out, to
be overtaken by the London coach, and Kit and the old
gentleman went to work in the garden.

This was not the least pleasant of Kit's employments,
for on a fine day they were quite a family party ; the old
lady sitting hard by with her workbasket on a little
table ; the old gentleman digging, or pruning, or clipping
about with a large pair of shears, or helping Kit in some*
way or other with great assiduity ; and Whisker looking
on from his paddock in placid contemplation of them all.
To-day they were to trim the grape vine, so Kit mounted
halfway up a short ladder, and began to snip and hammer

230

away, while the old gentleman, with a great interest in his
proceedings, handed up the nails and shreds of cloth as
he wanted them. The old lady and Whisker looked on
as usual.

" Well, Christopher," said Mr. Garland, " and so you
have made, a new friend, eh ?"

"I beg your pardon, Sir?" returned Kit, looking down
from the ladder.

" You have made a new friend, I hear from Mr. Abel,"
said the old gentleman, " at the office."

" Oh — yes, Sir, yes. He behaved very handsome, Sir."

" I'm glad to hear it," returned the old gentleman with
a smile. " He is disposed to behave more handsomely
still though, Christopher."

"Indeed, Sir ! It's very kind in him, but I don't want
him to, I'm sure," said Kit, hammering stoutly at an
obdurate nail.

" He is rather anxious," pursued the old gentleman, " to
have you in his own service — take care what you're ..
doing, or you will fall down and hurt yourself."

" To have me in his service, Sir ! " cried Kit, who had
stopped short in his work and faced about upon the ladder
like some dexterous tumbler. " Why, Sir, I don't think
he can be in earnest when he says that."

« Oh-! But he is indeed," said Mr. Garland. " And he
has told Mr. Abel so."

" I never heard of such a thing ! " muttered Kit, look-
ing ruefully at his master and mistress. " I wonder at
him ; that I do."

"You see, Christopher," said Mr. Garland, " this is a
■point of much importance to you, and you should under-
stand and consider it in that light. This gentleman is
able to give you more money than I — not, I hope, to
carry through the various relations of master and servant,
more kindness and confidence, but certainly, Christopher,
to give you more money."

231

" Well," said Kit, " after that, Sir "

" Wait a moment," interposed Mr. Garland. " That is
not all. You were a very faithful servant to your old
employers, as I understand, and should this gentleman
recover them, as it is his purpose to attempt doing by
every means in his power, I have no doubt that you,
being in his service, would meet with your reward.
Besides," added the old gentleman with stronger em-
phasis, "besides having the pleasure of being again
brought into communication with those to whom you
seem to be so very strongly and disinterestedly attached.
You must think of all this, Christopher, and not be rash
or hasty in your choice."

Kit did suffer one twinge, one momentary pang in
keeping the resolution he had already formed, when this
last argument passed swiftly into his thoughts, and con-
jured up the realization of all his hopes and fancies. But
it was gone in a minute, and he sturdily rejoined that the
gentleman must look out for somebody else, as he did
think he might have done at first.

" He has no right to think that I'd be led away to go to
him, Sir," said Kit, turning round again after half a
minute's hammering. " Does he think I'm a fool ? "

" He may, perhaps, Christopher, if you refuse his offer,"
said Mr. Garland gravely.

" Then let him, Sir," retorted Kit ; " what do I care,
Sir, what he thinks ? Why should I care for his thinking,
Sir, when I know that I should be a fool, and worse than a
fool, Sir, to leave the kindest master and mistress that
ever was or can be, who took me out of the streets a very
poor and hungry lad indeed — poorer and hungrier perhaps
than ever you think for, Sir — to go to him or anybody ?
If Miss Nell was to come back, ma'am," added Kit, turn-
ing suddenly to his Mistress, " why that would be another
thing, and perhaps if fhe wanted me, I might ask you now

232

and then to let me work for her when all was done at
home. But when she comes back, I see now that she'll
be rich as old master always said she would, and being a
rich young lady, what could she want of me ? No, no,"
added Kit, shaking his head sorrowfully, " she'll never
want me any more, and bless her, I hope she never may,
though I should like to see her, too ! "

Here Kit drove a nail into the wall, very hard — much
harder than was necessary — and having done so, faced
about again.

"There's the pony, Sir," said Kit — "Whisker, ma'am
(and he knows so well I'm talking about him that he be-
gins to neigh directly, Sir), — Would he let anybody come
near him but me, ma'am ? Here's the garden, Sir, and Mr.
Abel, ma'am. Would Mr. Abel part with me, Sir, or is
there anybody that could be fonder of the garden, ma'am ?
It would break mother's heart, Sir, and even little Jacob
would have sense enough to cry his eyes out, ma'am, if
he thought that Mr. Abel could wish to part with me so
soon, after having told me only the other day, that he
hoped we might be together for years to come — "

There is no telling how long Kit might have stood
upon the ladder, addressing his master and mistress by
turns, and generally turning towards the wrong person, if
Barbara had not at that moment come running up to say
that a messenger from the office had brought a note,
which, with an expression of some surprise at Kit's orator-
ical appearance, she put into her master's hand.

" Oh! " said the old gentleman after reading it, " ask
the messenger to walk this way." Barbara tripping off
to do as she was bid, he turned to Kit and said that they
would not pursue the subject any further, and that Kit
could not be more unwilling to part with them, than they
would be to part with Kit ; a sentiment which the old
lady very generously echoed.

233

" At the same time, Christopher," added Mr. Garland,
glancing at the note in his hand, " if the gentleman should
want to borrow you now and then for an hour or so, or
even a day or so, at a time, we must consent to lend you,
and you must consent to be lent. — Oh ! here is the young
gentleman. How do you do, Sir ?"

This salutation was addressed to Mr. Chuckster, who,
with his hat extremely on one side, and his hair a long
way beyond it, came swaggering up the walk.

" Hope I see you well, Sir," returned that gentleman.
" Hope I see you well, ma'am. Charming box this, Sir.
Delicious country, to be sure."

" You want to take Kit back with you, I find ? " observed
Mr. Garland.

" I've got a chariot cab waiting on purpose," replied the
clerk. " A very spanking gray in that cab, Sir, if you're a
judge of horseflesh."

Declining to inspect the spanking gray, on the plea that
he was but poorly acquainted with such matters, and
would but imperfectly appreciate his beauties, Mr. Gar-
land invited Mr. Chuckster to partake of a slight repast
in the way of lunch, and that gentleman readily consent-
ing, certain cold viands were speedily prepared for his
refreshment.

At this repast, Mr. Chuckster exerted his utmost abil-
ities to enchant his entertainers, and impress them with
a conviction of the mental superiority of those who dwelt
in town ; entertaining them with theatrical chit-chat
and the court circular ; and so wound up a brilliant and
fascinating conversation which he had maintained alone,
and without any assistance whatever, for upwards of
three quarters of an hour.

" And now that the nag has got his wind again," said
Mr. Chuckster, rising in a graceful manner, " I'm afraid
I must cut my stick,"

234

Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Garland offered any opposition to
his tearing himself away (feeling, no doubt, that such a man
could ill be spared from his proper sphere of action), and
therefore Mr. Chuckster and Kit were shortly afterwards
upon their way to town ; Kit being perched upon the box
of the cabriolet beside the driver, and Mr. Chuckster
seated in solitary state inside, with one of his boots
sticking out at each of the front windows.

When they reached the notary's house, Kit followed
into the office, and was desired by Mr. Abel to sit down
and wait, for the gentleman who wanted him had gone
out, and perhaps might not return for some time. This
anticipation was strictly verified, for Kit had had his
dinner, and his tea, and had read all the lighter matter in
the Law List, and the Post Office Directory, and had
fallen asleep a great many times, before the gentleman
whom he had seen before, came in ; which he did at last
in a very great hurry.

He was closeted with Mr. Witherden for some little
time, and Mr. Abel had been called in to assist at the
conference, before Kit, wondering very much what he
was wanted for, was summoned to attend them.

" Christopher," said the gentleman, turning to him
directly he entered the room, " I have found your old
master and young mistress."

" No, Sir ! Have you, though ? " returned Kit, his eyes
sparkling with delight. " Where are they, Sir ? How
are they, Sir ? Are they — are they near here ? "

"A long way from here," returned the gentleman,
shaking his head. "But I am going away to-night to
bring them back, and I want you to go with me."

" Me, Sir ? " cried Kit, full of joy and surprise.

" The place," said the strange gentleman, turning
thoughtfully to the notary, " is — how far from here —
sixty miles ? "

235

*' From sixty to seventy."

" Humph ! If we travel post all night, we shall reach
there in good time to-morrow morning. Now, the only
question is, as they will not know me, and the child, God
bless her, would think that any stranger pursuing them
had a design upon her grandfather's liberty, — can I do
better than take this lad, whom they both know and will
readily remember, as an assurance to them of my friendly
intentions ? "

" Certainly not," replied the notary. " Take Christo-
pher by all means."

" I beg your pardon, Sir," said Kit, who had listened to
this discourse with a lengthening countenance, " but if
that's the reason, I'm afraid I should do more harm than
good — Miss Nell, Sir, she knows me, and would trust in
me, I am sure ; but old master — I don't know why,
gentlemen, nobody does — would not bear me in his sight
after he had been ill, and Miss Nell herself told me that
I must not go near him or let him see me any more. I
should spoil all that you were doing if I went, I'm afraid.
I'd give the world to go, but you had better not take me,
Sir."

" Another difficulty ! " cried the impetuous gentleman.
" Was ever man so beset as I ? Is there nobody else
that knew them, nobody else in whom they had any con-
fidence ? Solitary as their lives were, is there no one
person who would serve my purpose ? "

" Is there, Christopher ? '' said the notary.

" Not one, Sir," replied Kit.—" Yes, though— there's
my mother."

" Did they know her ? " said the single gentleman.

" Know her, Sir ! why, she was always coming back-
wards and forwards. They were as kind to her as they
were to me. Bless you, Sir, she expected they'd come
back to her house."

236

" Then where is the woman ? " said the impatient
gentleman, catching up his hat. " Why isn't she here ?
Why is that woman always out of the way when she is
most wanted ? "

In a word, the single gentleman was bursting out of
the office, bent upon laying violent hands on Kit's mother,
forcing her into a post chaise, and carrying her off, when
this novel kind of abduction was with some difficulty pre-
vented by the joint efforts of Mr. Abel and the notary,
who restrained him by dint of their remonstrances, and
persuaded him to sound Kit upon the probability of her
being able and willing to undertake such a journey on so
short a notice.

This occasioned some doubts on the part of Kit, and
some violent demonstrations on that of the single gentle-
man, and a great many soothing speeches on that of
the notary and Mr. Abel. The upshot of the business
was, that Kit, after weighing the matter in his mind and
considering it carefully, promised, on behalf of his mother,
that she should be ready within two hours from that time
to undertake the expedition, and engaged to produce her
in that place, in all respects equipped and prepared for
journey, before the specified period had expired.

Having given this pledge, which was rather a bold one,
and not particularly easy of redemption, Kit lost no time
in sallying forth, and taking measures for its immediate
fulfillment.

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIRST.

Kit made his way through the crowded streets, dividing
the stream of people, dashing across the busy roadways,
diving into lanes and alleys, and stopping or turning

237

aside for nothing, until he came in front of the old curi-
osity shop, when he came to a stand ; partly from habit
and partly from being out of breath.

It was a gloomy autumn evening, and he thought the
old place had never looked so dismal as in its dreary twi-
light. He had not expected that the house would wear
any different aspect — had known indeed that it could
not — but coming upon it in the midst of eager thoughts
and expectations, it checked the current in its flow, and
darkened it with a mournful shadow.

So, almost wishing that he had not passed it, though
hardly knowing why, he hurried on again, making up by
his increased speed for the few moments he had lost.

" Now, if she should be out," thought Kit, as he ap-
proached the poor dwelling of his mother, " and I not
able to find her, this impatient gentleman would be in a
pretty taking. And v sure enough there's no light, and
the door's fast."

A second knock brought no reply from within the
house ; but caused a woman over the way to look out
and inquire who that was, wanting Mrs. Nubbles.

" Me," said Kit. " She's at — chapel I suppose ? " —

The neighbor nodded assent.

" Then pray tell me where it is," said Kit, " for I have
come on a pressing matter, and must fetch her out, even
if she was in the pulpit."

It was not very easy to procure a direction to the fold
in question, as none of the neighbors were of the flock
that resorted thither, and few knew anything of it. At last
a gossip of Mrs. Nubbles's, who had accompanied her to
chapel on one or two occasions, furnished the needful in-
formation, which Kit had no sooner obtained than he
started off again.

The chapel might have been nearer, and might have
been in a straighter road, though in that case the reverend ~>

238

gentleman who presided over its congregation would have
lost his favorite allusion to the crooked way by which it
was approached, and which enabled him to liken it to
Paradise itself, in contradistinction to the parish church
and the broad thoroughfare leading thereunto. Kit
found it at last after some trouble, and pausing at the door
to take breath that he might enter with becoming decency,
passed into the chapel.

It was in truth a particularly little chapel — with a small
number of small pews, and a small pulpit, in which a small
gentleman was delivering in a by no means small voice, a
by no means small sermon, judging of its dimensions by
the condition of his audience, which, if their gross amount
were but small, comprised a still smaller number of hearers,
as the majority were slumbering.

Among these was Kit's mother, who, finding it matter
of extreme difficulty to keep her eyes open after the fa-
tigues of last night, and feeling their inclination to close
strongly backed and seconded by the arguments of the
preacher, and yielded to the drowsiness that overpowered
her, and fallen asleep ; though not so soundly but that
she could from time to time utter a slight and almost in-
audible groan, as if in recognition of the orator's doctrines.
The baby in her arms was as fast asleep as she ; and little
Jacob, whose youth prevented him from recognizing in this
prolonged spiritual nourishment anything half as interest-
ing as oysters, was alternately very fast asleep and very
wide awake, as his inclination to slumber, or his terror of
Deing personally alluded to in the discourse, gained the
mastery over him.

" And now I'm here," thought Kit, gliding into the
nearest empty pew which was opposite his mother's, and
on the other side of the little aisle, " how am I ever to
get at her, or persuade her to come out ! I might as
well be twenty miles off. She'll never wake till it's all

239

over, and there goes the clock -again ! If he would but
leave off for a minute, or if they'd only sing ! " —

But there was little encouragement to believe that
either event would happen for a couple of hours to come.
The preacher went on telling them what he meant to con-
vince them of before he had done, and it was clear that if
he only kept to one half of his promises and forgot the
other, he was good for that time at least.

In his desperation and restlessness Kit cast his eyes
about the chapel, and happening to let them fall upon a
little seat in front of the clerk's desk, could scarcely be-
lieve them when they showed him — Quilp !

He rubbed them twice or thrice, but still they insisted
that Quilp was there, and there indeed he was, sitting
with his hands upon his knees, and his hat between them
on a little wooden bracket, with the accustomed grin
upon his dirty face, and his eyes fixed upon the ceiling.
He certainly did not glance at Kit or at his mother, and
appeared utterly unconscious of their presence ; still Kit
could not help feeling directly that the attention of the
sly little fiend was fastened upon them, and upon nothing
else.

But astounded as he was by the apparition of the dwarf
and not free from a misgiving that it was the forerunner
of some trouble or annoyance, he was compelled to subdue
his wonder and to take active measures for the withdrawal
of his parent, as the evening was now creeping on, and
the matter grew serious. Therefore the next time little
Jacob woke, Kit set himself to attract his wandering
attention, and this not being a very difficult task (one
sneeze effected it), he signed to him to rouse his mother.

Ill luck would have it, however, that just then the
preacher, in a forcible exposition of one head of his dis-
course, leaned over upon the pulpit desk so that very
little more of him than his legs remained inside; and,

240

while he made vehement gestures with his right hand, and
held on with his left, stared, or seemed to stare, straight
into little Jacob's eyes, threatening him by his strained
look and attitude — so it appeared to the child — that if he
so much as moved a muscle, he, the preacher, would be
literally, and not figuratively, " down upon him " that
instant. In this fearful state of things, distracted by the
sudden appearance of Kit, and fascinated by the eyes of
the preacher, the miserable Jacob sat bolt upright, wholly
incapable of motion, strongly disposed to cry but afraid to
do so, and returning his pastor's gaze until his infant eyes
seemed starting from their sockets.

" If I must do it openly, I must," thought Kit. With
that, he walked softly out of his pew and into his mother's.

" Hush, mother ! " whispered Kit. " Come along with
me, I've got something to tell you."

" Where ami?" said Mrs. Nubbles.

" In this blessed chapel," returned her son, peevishly.

" Blessed indeed ! " cried Mrs. Nubbles, catching at the
word. " Oh, Christopher, how have I been edified this
night ! "

" Yes, yes, I know," said Kit hastily ; " but come along,
mother, everybody's looking at us. Don't make a noise
— bring Jacob — that's right."

So saying, Kit marched out of the chapel, followed by
his mother and little Jacob, and found himself in the open
air, with an indistinct recollection of having seen the
people wake up and look surprised, and of Quilp having
remained throughout the interruption in his old attitude,
without moving his eyes from the ceiling, or appearing to
take the smallest notice of anything that passed.

Kit led them briskly forward ; and on the road home
he related what had passed at the notary's house, and the
purpose with which he had intruded on the solemnities of
the chapel.

241

His mother was not a little startled on learning what
service was required of her, and presently fell into a con-
fusion of ideas, of which the most prominent were that it
was a great honor and dignity to ride in a post chaise,
and that it was a moral impossibility to leave the children
behind. But this objection, and a great many others,
founded upon certain articles of dress being at the wash,
and certain other articles having no existence in the
wardrobe of Mrs. Nubbles, were overcome by Kit, who
opposed to each and every of them, the pleasure of re-
covering Nell, and the delight it would be to bring her
back in triumph.

" There's only ten minutes now, mother " — said Kit
when they reached home. " There's a bandbox. Throw
in what you want, and we'll be off directly."

To tell how Kit then hustled into the box all sorts of
things which could by no remote contingency be wanted,
and how he left out everything likely to be of the smallest
use ; how a neighbor was persuaded to come and stop
with the children, and how the children at first cried dis-
mally, and then laughed heartily on being promised all
kinds of impossible and unheard-of toys ; how Kit's
mother wouldn't leave off kissing them, and how Kit
couldn't make up his mind to be vexed with her for doing
it ; would take more time and room than we can spare.
So, passing over all such matters, it is sufficient to say
that within a few minutes after the two hours had expired,
Kit and his mother arrived at the notary's door, where a
post chaise was already waiting.

" With four horses I declare ! " said Kit, quite aghast
at the preparations. " Well you are going to do it, mother !
Here she is, Sir. Here's my mother. She's quite ready,
Sir."

" That's well " — returned the gentleman. " Now, don't
be in a flutter, ma'am ; you'll be taken great care of.

Little Nell. — 16.

242

Where's the box with the new clothing and necessaries for
them?"

" Here it is," said the notary. " In with it, Christo-
pher."

" All right, Sir," replied Kit. " Quite ready now, Sir."

" Then come along," said the single gentleman. And
thereupon he gave his arm to Kit's mother, handed her
into the carriage as politely as you please, and took his
seat beside her.

Up went the steps, bang went the door, round whirled
the wheels, and off they rattled, with Kit's mother hang-
ing out at one window waving -a damp pocket handker-
chief and screaming out a great many messages to little
Jacob and the baby, of which nobody heard a word.

Kit stood in the middle of the road, and looked after
them with tears in his eyes — not brought there by the de-
parture he witnessed, but by the return to which he looked
forward. " They went away," he thought, " on foot with
nobody to speak to them or say a kind word at parting,
and they'll come back, drawn by four horses, with this
rich gentleman for their friend, and all their troubles
over ! She'll forget that she taught me to write — "

Whatever Kit thought about after this, took some time
to think of, for he stood gazing up the lines of shining
lamps, long after the chaise had disappeared, and did not
return into the house until the notary and Mr. Abel, who
had themselves lingered outside till the sound of the
wheels was no longer distinguishable, had several times
wondered what could possibly detain him.

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SECOND.

It behooves us to leave Kit for a while, thoughtful and
expectant, and to follow the fortunes of little Nell ; re-

243

suming the thread of the narrative at the point where it
was left, some chapters back.

In one of those wanderings in the evening time, when,
following the two sisters at a humble distance, she felt, in
her sympathy with them and her recognition in their trials
of something akin to her own loneliness of spirit, a com-
fort and consolation which made such moments a time of
deep delight, though the softened pleasure they yielded
was of that kind which lives and dies in tears — in one of
those wanderings at the quiet hour of twilight, when sky,
and earth, and air, and rippling water, and sound of dis-
tant bells, claimed kindred with the emotions of the sol-
itary child, and inspired her with soothing thoughts, but
not of a child's world or its easy joys — in one of those
rambles which had now become her only pleasure or re-
lief from care, light had faded into darkness and evening
deepened into night, and still the young creature lingered
in the gloom ; feeling a companionship in Nature so serene
and still, when noise of tongues and glare of garish lights
would- have been solitude indeed.

Between the old man and herself there had come a
gradual separation, harder to bear than any former sorrow.
Every evening, and often in the daytime too, he was ab-
sent, alone ; and although she well knew where he went,
and why — too well from the constant drain upon her
scanty purse and from his haggard looks — he evaded all
inquiry, maintained a strict reserve, and even shunned
her presence.

She sat meditating sorrowfully upon this change, and
mingling it, as it were, with everything about her, when
the distant church clock bell struck nine. Rising at the
sound, she retraced her steps, and turned thoughtfully
towards the town.

She had gained a little wooden bridge, which, thrown
across the stream, led into a meadow in her way, when

244

she came suddenly upon a ruddy light, and looking for-
ward more attentively, discerned that it proceeded from
what appeared to be an encampment of gypsies, who had
made a fire in one corner at no great distance from the
path, and were sitting or lying round it. As she was too
poor to have any fear of them, she did not alter her course
(which, indeed, she could not have done without going a
long way round), but quickened her pace a little, and kept
straight on.

A movement of timid curiosity impelled her, when she
approached the spot, to glance towards the fire. There
was a form between it and her, the outline strongly
developed against the light, which caused her to stop
abruptly. Then, as if she had reasoned with herself and
were assured that it could not be, or had satisfied herself
that it was not that of the person she had supposed, she
went on again.

But at that instant the conversation, whatever it was,
which had been carried on near this fire, was resumed,
and the tones of the voice that spoke — she could not dis-
tinguish words — sounded as familiar to her as her own.

She turned, and looked back. The person had been
seated before, but was now in a standing posture, and lean-
ing forward upon a stick on which he rested both hands.
The attitude was no less familiar to her than the tone of
voice had been. It was her grandfather.

Her first impulse was to call to him ; her next to won-
der who his associates could be, and for what purpose
they were together. Some vague apprehension suc-
ceeded, and, yielding to the strong inclination it awak-
ened, she drew nearer to the place ; not advancing across
the open field, however, but creeping towards it by the
hedge.

In this way she advanced within a few feet of the fire,
and standing among a few young trees, could both see
and hear, without much danger of being observed.

245

There were no women or children, as she had seen in
other gypsy camps they had passed in their wayfaring,
and but one gypsy — a tall, athletic man, who stood with
his arms folded, leaning against a tree at a little distance
off, looking now at the fire, and now, under his black eye-
lashes, at three other men who were there, with a
watchful but half-concealed interest in their conversation.
Of these her grandfather was one ; the others she recog-
nized as the first card players at the public house on the
eventful night of the storm — the man whom they had
called Isaac List, and his gruff companion. One of the
low,' arched gypsy tents, common to that people, was
pitched hard by, but it either was, or appeared to be,
empty.

" Well, are you going ? " said the stout man, looking up
from the ground where he was lying at his ease, into her
grandfather's face. " You were in a mighty hurry a
minute ago. Go, if you like. You're your own master, I
hope ? "

" Don't vex him,'' returned Isaac List, who was squat-
ting like a frog on the other side of the fire, and had so
screwed himself up that he seemed to be squinting all
over ; " he didn't mean any offense."

"You keep me poor, and plunder me, and make a sport
and jest of me besides," said the old man, turning from
one to the other. " Ye'll drive me mad among ye."

The utter irresolution and feebleness of the gray-haired
child, contrasted with the keen and cunning looks of
those in whose hands he was, smote upon the little
listener's heart. But she constrained herself to attend to
all that passed, and to note each look and word.

" Confound you, what do you mean ? " said the stout
man rising a little, and supporting himself upon his elbow.
" Keep you poor ! You'd keep us poor if you could,
wouldn't you ? That's the way with you whining, puny,

246

pitiful players. When you lose, you're martyrs ; but I
don't find that when you win, you look upon the other
losers in that light. As to plunder," cried the fellow,
raising his voice — " what do you mean by such ungentle-
manly language as plunder, eh ? "

The speaker laid himself down again at full length, and
gave one or two short, angry kicks, as if in further ex-
pression of his unbounded indignation. It was quite
plain that he acted the bully, and his friend the peace-
maker, for some particular purpose ; or rather, it would
have been to any one but the weak old man ; for they
exchanged glances quite openly, both with each other and
with the gypsy, who grinned his approval of the jest until
his white teeth shone again.

The old man stood helplessly among them for a little
time, and then said, turning to his assailant :

" You yourself were speaking of plunder just now, you
know. Don't be so violent with me. You were, were
you not ? "

" Not of plundering among present company ! Honor
among — among gentlemen, Sir," returned the other, who
seemed to have been very near giving an awkward termi-
nation to the sentence.

" Don't be hard upon him, Jowl," said Isaac List.
" He's very sorry for giving offense. There — go on with
what you were saying — go on."

" I'm a jolly old tender-hearted lamb, I am," cried Mr.
Jowl, " to be sitting here at my time of life giving advice
when I know it won't be taken, and that I shall get noth-
ing but abuse for my pains. But that's the way I've gone
through life. Experience has never put a chill upon my
warm-heartedness."

" I tell you he's very sorry, don't I ? " remonstrated
Isaac List, " and that he wishes you'd go on."

"Does he wish it? " said the other.

247

" Ay," groaned the old man sitting down, and rocking
himself to and fro. " Go on, go on. It's in vain to fight
with it ; I can't do it ; go on."

" I go on then," said Jowl, " where I left off, when you
got up so quick. If you're persuaded that it's time for
luck to turn, as it certainly is, and find that you haven't
means enough to try it (and that's where it is, for you
know yourself that you never have the funds to keep on
long enough at a sitting), help yourself to what seems put
in your way on purpose. Borrow it, I say, and, when
you're able, pay it back again."

" Certainly," Isaac List struck in, " if this good lady as
keeps the waxworks has money, and does keep it in a tin
box when she goes to bed, and doesn't lock her door for
fear of fire, it seems a easy thing ; quite a Providence, /
should call it."

" You see, Isaac," said his friend, growing more eager,
and drawing himself closer to the old man, while he
signed to the gypsy not to come between them; "you
see, Isaac, strangers are going in and out every hour of
the day ; nothing would be more likely than for one of
these strangers to get under the good lady's bed, or lock
himself in the cupboard ; suspicion would be very wide,
and would fall a long way from the mark, no doubt. I'd
give him his revenge to the last farthing he brought,
whatever the amount was."

" But could you ? " urged Isaac List. " Is your bank
strong enough ? "

" Strong enough ! " answered the other, with assumed
disdain. " Here, you, Sir, give me that box out of the
straw ! "

This was addressed to the gypsy, who crawled into the
low tent on all fours, and after some rummaging and
rustling returned with a cash box, which the man who
had spoken opened with a key he wore about his person.

248

" Do you see this ? " he said, gathering up the money
in his hand and letting it drop back into the box, between
his fingers, like water. " Do you hear it ? Do you know
the sound of gold ? There, put it back — and don't talk
about banks again, Isaac, till you've got one of your own."

" Ah ! " cried Isaac List rapturously, " the pleasures of
winning ! The delight of picking up the money— t-the
bright, shining yellow-boys — and sweeping 'em into one's
pocket ! The deliciousness of having a triumph at last,
and thinking that one didn't stop short and turn back, but

went half-way to meet it ! The but you're not

going, old gentleman ?"

" I'll do it," said the old man, who had risen and taken
two or three hurried steps away, and now returned as
hurriedly. " I'll have it, every penny."

" Why, that's brave," cried Isaac, jumping up and slap-
ping him on the shoulder ; " and I respect you for having
so much young blood left. Ha, ha, ha ! Joe Jowl's half
sorry he advised you now. We've got the laugh against
him. Ha, ha, ha ! "

" He gives me my revenge, mind," said the old man,
pointing to him eagerly with his shriveled hand : " mind
— he stakes coin against coin, down to the last one in the
box, be there many or few. Remember that ! "

" I'm witness," returned Isaac. " I'll see fair between
you."

" I have passed my word," said Jowl with feigned
reluctance, " and I'll keep it. When does this match
come off? I wish it was over. — To-night ? "

" I must have the money first," said the old man; " and
that I'll have to-morrow "

" Why not to-night ? " urged Jowl.

" It's late now, and I should be flushed and flurried,"
said the old man. " It must be softly done. No, to-mor-
row night."

249

" Then to-morrow be it," said Jowl.

" God be merciful to us ! " cried the child within her-
self, " and help us in this trying hour ! What shall I do
to save him ! "

The remainder of their conversation was carried on in a
lower tone of voice, and was sufficiently concise ; relating
merely to the execution of the project, and the best pre-
cautions for diverting suspicion. The old man then
shooks hands with his tempters, and withdrew.

They watched his bowed and stooping figure as it re-
treated slowly, and when he turned his head to look back,
which he often did, waved their hands, or shouted some
brief encouragement. It was not until they had seen him
gradually diminish into a mere speck upon the distant
road, that they turned to each other, and ventured to
laugh aloud.

" So," said Jowl, warming his hands at the fire, " it's
done at last. He wanted more persuading than I ex-
pected. It's three weeks ago since we first put this in
his head. What'll he bring, do you think ? "

"Whatever he brings, it's halved between us," returned
Isaac List.

The other man nodded. " We must make quick work
of it," he said, " and then cut his acquaintance, or we may
be suspected. Sharp's the word."

List and the gypsy acquiesced. When they had all three
amused themselves a little with their victim's infatuation,
they dismissed the subject as one which had been suffi-
ciently discussed, and began to talk in a jargon which the
child did not understand. As their discourse appeared to
relate to matters in which they were warmly interested,
however, she deemed it the best time for escaping unob-
served; and crept away with slow and cautious steps, keep-
ing in the shadow of the hedges, or forcing a path
through them or the dry ditches, until she could emerge

2$0

upon the road at a point beyond their range of vision.
Then she fled homewards as quickly as she could, torn
and bleeding from the wounds of thorns and briars, but
more lacerated in mind, and threw herself upon her bed,
distracted.

The first idea that flashed upon her mind was flight,
instant flight ; dragging him from that place, and rather
dying of want upon the roadside, than ever exposing him
again to such terrible temptations. Then she remem-
bered that the crime was not to be committed until next
night, and there was the intermediate time for thinking,
and resolving what to do. Then she was distracted with
a horrible fear that he might be committing it at that mo-
ment ; with a dread of hearing shrieks and cries piercing
the silence of the night ; with fearful thoughts of what
he might be tempted and led on to do, if he were detected
in the act, and had but a woman to struggle with. It
was impossible to bear such torture. She stole to the
room where the money was, opened the door, and looked
in. God be praised ! He was not there, and she was
sleeping soundly.

She went back to her own room, and tried to prepare
herself for bed. But who could sleep — sleep ! who could
lie passively down, distracted by such terrors ? They
came upon her more and more strongly yet. Half un-
dressed, and with her hair in wild disorder, she flew to the
old man's bedside, clasped him by the wrist, and roused
him from his sleep.

"What's this ! " he cried, starting up in bed, and fixing
his eyes upon her spectral face.

" I have had a dreadful dream," said the child, with an
energy that nothing but such terrors could have inspired.
" A dreadful, horrible dream. I have had it once before.
It is a dream of gray-haired men like you, in darkened
rooms by night, robbing the sleepers of their gold. Up,

251

up ! " The old man shook in every joint, and folded his
hands like one who prays.

" Not to me," said the child, " not to me — to Heaven,
to save us from such deeds ! This dream is too real. I
cannot sleep, I cannot stay here, I cannot leave you alone
under the roof where such dreams come. Up ! We must
fly."

He looked at her as if she were a spirit — she might
have been, for all the look of earth she had — and trembled
more and more.

" There is no time to lose ; I will not lose one minute,"
said the child. " Up ! and away with me ! "

" To-night ! " murmured the old man.

" Yes, to-night," replied the child. " To-morrow night
will be too late. "The dream will have come again.
Nothing but flight can save us. Up ! "

The old man rose from his bed, his forehead bedewed
with the cold sweat of fear, and, bending before the child
as if she had been an angel messenger sent to lead him
where she would, made ready to follow her. She took
him by the hand and led him on. As they passed the
door of the room he had proposed to rob, she shuddered
and looked up into his face. What a white face was that,
and with what a look did he meet hers !

She took him to her own chamber, and, still holding
him by the hand as if she feared to lose him for an in-
stant, gathered together the little stock she had, and hung
her basket on her arm. The old man took his wallet
from her hands and strapped it on his shoulders — his
staff, too, she had brought away — and then she led him
forth.

Through the strait streets, and narrow crooked out-
skirts, their trembling feet passed quickly. Up the steep
hill too, crowned by the old gray castle, they toiled with
rapid steps, and had not once looked behind.

252

But as they drew nearer the ruined walls, the moon rose
in all her gentle glory, and, from their venerable age, gar-
landed with ivy, moss, and waving grass, the child looked
back upon the sleeping town, deep in the valley's shade,
and on the far-off river with its winding track of light, and
on the distant hills ; and as she did so, she clasped the
hand she held, less firmly, and, bursting into tears, fell
upon the old man's neck.

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-THIRD.

Her momentary weakness past, the child- again sum-
moned the resolution which had until now sustained her,
and, endeavoring to keep steadily in her view the one
idea that they were flying from disgrace and crime, and
that her grandfather's preservation must depend solely
upon her firmness, unaided by one word of advice or any
helping hand, urged him onward and looked back no
more.

While he, subdued and abashed, seemed to crouch be-
fore her, and to shrink and cower down as if in the pres-
ence of some superior creature, the child herself was sensi-
ble of a new feeling within her, which elevated her nature,
and inspired her with an energy and confidence she had
never known. There was no divided responsibility now ;
the whole burden of their two lives had fallen upon her,
and henceforth she must think and act for both. " I have
saved him," she thought. " In all dangers and distresses,
I will remember that."

At any other time the recollection of having deserted
the friend who had shown them so much homely kindness,
without a word of justification — the thought that they
were guilty, in appearance, of treachery and ingratitude
— even the having parted from the two sisters — would

253

have filled her with sorrow and regret. But now, all other
considerations were lost in the new uncertainties and
anxieties of their wild and wandering life ; and the very-
desperation of their condition roused and stimulated her.

In the pale moonlight, which lent a wanness of its own,
the delicate face where thoughtful' care already mingled
with the winning grace and loveliness of youth, the too
bright eye, the spiritual head, the lips that pressed each
other with such high resolve and courage of the heart, the
slight figure firm in its bearing and yet so very weak, told
their silent tale ; but told it only to the wind that rustled
by, which, taking up its burden, carried, perhaps to some
mother's pillow, faint dreams of childhood fading in its
bloom, and resting in the sleep that knows no waking.

The night crept on apace, the moon went down,, the
stars grew pale and dim, and morning, cold as they, slowly
approached. Then, from behind a distant hill, the noble
sup rose up, driving the mists in phantom shapes before
it, and clearing the earth of their ghostly forms till dark-
ness came again. When it had climbed higher into the
sky, and there was warmth in its cheerful beams, they laid
them down to sleep, upon a bank, hard by some water. '

But Nell retained her grasp upon the old man's arm,
and long after he was slumbering soundly, watched him
with untiring eyes. Fatigue stole over her at last ; her
grasp relaxed, tightened, relaxed again, and they slept
side by side.

A confused sound of voices, mingling with her dreams,
awoke her. A man of very uncouth and rough appearance
was standing over them, and two of his companions were
looking on from a long, heavy boat which had come close
to the bank while they were sleeping. The boat had
neither oar nor sail, but was towed by a couple of horses,
who, with the rope to which they were harnessed slack
and dripping in the water, were resting on the path..

254

" Holloa ! " said the man roughly. " What's the matter
here, eh ? "

" We were only asleep, Sir," said Nell. " We have been
walking all night."

" A pair of queer travelers to be walking all night,"
observed the man who had first accosted them. One of
you is a trifle too old for that sort of work, and the other
a trifle too young. Where are you going?"

Nell faltered, and pointed at hazard towards the west,
upon which the man inquired if she meant a certain town
which he named. Nell, to avoid further questioning, said
" Yes, that was the place."

" Where have you come from ? " was the next question ;
and this being an easier one to answer, Nell mentioned the
name of the village in which their friend the schoolmaster
dwelt, as being less likely to be known to the men or to
provoke further inquiry.

" I thought somebody had been robbing and ill-using
you, might be," said the man. " That's all. Good day."

Returning his salute and feeling greatly relieved by his
departure, Nell looked after him as he mounted one of
the horses, and the boat went on. It had not gone very
far, when it stopped again, and she saw the men beckoning
to her.

" Did you call to me ? " said Nell, running up to them.

"You may go with us if you like," replied one of those
in the boat. " We're going to the same place."

The child hesitated for a moment, and thinking, as she
had thought with great trepidation more than once before,
that the men whom she had seen with her grandfather
might perhaps, in their eagerness for the booty, follow
them, and, regaining their influence over him, set hers at
naught ; and that if they went with these men, all traces
of them must surely be lost at that spot ; determined to
accept the offer. The boat came close to the bank again,

255

and before she had had any time for further considera-
tion, she and her grandfather were on board, and gliding
smoothly down the canal.

The sun shone pleasantly upon the bright water, which
was sometimes shaded by trees, and sometimes open to a
wide extent of country, intersected by running streams, and
rich with wooded hills, cultivated land, and sheltered farms.
Now and then a village with its modest spire, thatched roofs
and gable ends, would peep out from among the trees ; and
more than once a distant town, with great church towers
looming through its smoke, and high factories or work-
shops rising above the mass of houses, would come in view,
and, by the length of time it lingered in the distance, show
them how slowly they traveled. Their way lay for the
most part through the. low grounds, and open plains ; and
except these distant places, and occasionally some men
working in the fields, or lounging on the bridges under
which they passed, to see them creep along, nothing en-
croached oh their monotonous and secluded track.

Nell was rather disheartened, when they stopped at a
kind of wharf late in the afternoon, to learn from one of
the men that they would not reach their place of destina-
tion until next day, and that if she had no provision with
her she had better buy it there. She had but a few pence,
having already bargained with them for some bread, but
even of these it was necessary to be very careful, as they
were on their way to an utterly strange place, with no
resource whatever. A small loaf and a morsel of cheese,
therefore, were all she could afford, and with these she
took her place in the boat again, and, after half an hour's
delay, proceeded on the journey.

Avoiding the small cabin, which was very dark and
filthy, and to which they often invited both her and her
grandfather, Nell sat in the open air with the old man by
her side, listening to their boisterous hosts with a palpitat-

256

ing heart, and almost wishing herself safe on shore again
though she should have to walk all night.

By this time it was night again, and though the child
felt cold, being but poorly clad, her anxious thoughts
were far removed from her own suffering or uneasiness,
and busily engaged in endeavoring to ' devise some
scheme for their joint subsistence. The same spirit,
which had supported her on the previous night, upheld
and sustained her now. . Her grandfather lay sleeping
safely at her side, and the crime, to which his madness
urged him, was not committed. That was her comfort.

How every circumstance of her short eventful life,
came thronging into her mind as they traveled on !
Slight incidents, never thought of or remembered until
now ; faces seen once and ever since forgotten ; words
spoken and scarcely heeded at the time ; scenes of a year
ago and those of yesterday mixing up and linking them-
selves together ; familiar places shaping themselves out in
the darkness from things which, when approached, were
of all others the most remote and most unlike them ;
sometimes a strange confusion in her mind relative to
the occasion of her being there, and the place to which
she was going, and the people she was with ; and imagina-
tion suggesting remarks and questions which sounded so
plainly in her ears, that she would start, and turn, and be
almost tempted to reply ; — all the fancies and contradic-
tions common in watching and excitement and restless
change of place, beset the child.

She happened, while she was thus engaged, to encounter
the face of the man on deck, who, taking from his mouth
a short pipe, quilted over with a string for its longer pres-
ervation, requested that she would oblige him with a
song.

" You've got a very pretty voice, a very soft eye, and a
very strong memory," said this gentleman ; " the voice and

257

eye I've got evidence for, and the memory's an opinion of
my own. And I'm never wrong. Let me hear a song
this minute."

" I don't think I know one, Sir," returned Nell.

"You know forty-seven songs," said the man, with a
gravity which admitted of no altercation on the subject.
" Forty-seven's, your number. Let me hear one of 'em —
the best. Give me a song this minute."

Not knowing what might be the consequences of irritat-
ing her friend, and trembling with fear of doing so, poor
Nell sang him some little ditty which she had learned in
happier times, and which was so agreeable to his ear, that
on its conclusion he, in the same peremptory manner,
requested to be favored with another, to which he was
so obliging as to roar a chorus to no particular tune, and
with no words at all, but which amply made up in its
amazing energy for its deficiency in other respects. The
noise of this vocal performance awakened the other man,
who swore that singing was his pride and joy and chief
delight, and that he desired no better entertainment.
With a third call, more imperative than either of the two
former, Nell felt obliged to comply, and this time a
chorus was maintained not only by the two men together,
but also by the third man on horseback, who, being by
his position debarred from a nearer participation in the
revels of the night, roared when his companions roared,
and rent the very air. In this way, with little cessation,
and singing, the same songs again and again, the tired
and exhausted child kept them in good humor all that
.night ; and many a cottager, who was roused from 'his
soundest sleep by the discordant chorus as it floated
away upon the wind, hid his head beneath the bedclothes
and trembled at the sounds.

At length the morning dawned. It was no sooner light
than it began to rain heavily. As the child could not

Little Nell.— \T.

258

endure the intolerable vapors of the cabin, they covered
her, in return for her exertions, with some pieces of sail-
cloth and ends of tarpaulin, which sufficed to keep her
tolerably dry and to shelter her grandfather besides. As
the day advanced the rain increased. At noon it poured
down more hopelessly and heavily than ever, without the
faintest promise of abatement.

They had for some time been gradually approaching the
place for which they were bound. The water had become
thicker and dirtier ; other barges coming from it passed
them frequently ; the paths of coal ash and huts of staring
brick marked the vicinity of some great manufacturing
town ; while scattered streets and houses, and smoke from
distant furnaces, indicated that they were already in the
outskirts. Now, the clustered roofs, and piles of buildings
trembling with, the working of engines, and dimly resound-
ing with their shrieks and throbbings ; the tall chimneys
vomiting forth a black vapor, which hung in a dense ill-
favored cloud above the housetops and filled the air with
gloom ; the clank of hammers beating upon iron, the roar
of busy streets and noisy crowds, gradually augmenting
until all the various sounds blended into one and none
was distinguishable for itself, announced the termination
of their journey.

The boat floated into the wharf to which it belonged.
The men were occupied directly. The child and her grand-
father, after waiting in vain to thank them, or ask them
whither they should go, passed through a dirty lane into
a crowded street, and stood amid its din and tumult, and
in the pouring rain, as strange, bewildered, and confused,
as if they had lived a thousand years before, and were
raised from the dead and placed there by a miracle.

259

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FOURTH.

The throng of people hurried by, in two opposite
streams, with no symptom of cessation or exhaustion ;
intent upon their own affairs ; and undisturbed in their
business speculations, by the roar of carts and wagons
laden with clashing wares, the slipping of horses' feet
upon the wet and greasy pavement, the rattling of the
rain on windows and umbrella tops, the jostling of the
more impatient passengers, and all the noise and tumult
of a crowded street in the high tide of its occupation :
while the two poor strangers, stunned and bewildered by
the hurry they beheld but had no part in, looked mourn-
fully on ; feeling amidst the crowd a solitude which has
no parallel but in the thirst of the shipwrecked mariner,
who, tossed to and fro upon the billows of a mighty
ocean, his red eyes blinded by looking on the water which
hems him in on every side, has not one drop to cool his
burning tongue.

They withdrew into a low archway for shelter from the
rain, and watched the faces of those who passed, to find
in one among them a ray of encouragement or hope.

Falling into that kind of abstraction which such a
solitude awakens, the child continued to gaze upon the
passing crowd with a wondering interest, amounting
almost to a temporary forgetfulness of her own condition.
But cold, wet, hunger, want of rest, and lack of any place
in which to lay her aching head, soon brought her
thoughts back to the point whence they had strayed.
No one passed who seemed to notice them, or to whom
she durst appeal. After some time, they left their place
of refuge from the weather and mingled with the con-
course.

Evening came on. They were still wandering up and

260

down, with fewer people about them, but with the same
sense of solitude in their own breasts, and the same in-
difference from all round. The lights in the streets and
shops made them feel yet more desolate, for with their
help, night and darkness seemed to come on faster.
Shivering with the cold and damp, ill in body, and sick
to death at heart, the child needed her utmost firmness
and resolution even to creep along.

Why had they ever come to this noisy town, when there
were peaceful country places, in which, at least, they
might have hungered and thirsted, with less suffering
than in its squalid strife ! They were but an atom, here,
in a mountain heap of misery, the very sight of which in-
creased their hopelessness and suffering.

The child had not only to endure the accumulated
hardships of their destitute condition, but to bear the re-
proaches of her grandfather, who began to murmur at
having been led away from their late abode, and demand
that they should return to it. Being now penniless, and
no relief or prospect of relief appearing, they retraced their
steps through the deserted streets, and went back to the
wharf, hoping to find the boat in which they had come,
and to be allowed to sleep on board that night. But here
again they were disappointed, for the gate was closed,
and some fierce dogs, barking at their approach, obliged
them to retreat.

"We must sleep in the open air to-night, dear," said the
child in a weak voice, as they turned away from this last
repulse; " and to-morrow we will beg our way to some
quiet part of the country, and try to earn our bread in
very humble work."

" Why did you bring me here ? " returned the old man
fiercely. " I cannot bear these close, eternal streets. We
came from a quiet part. Why did you force me to leave
it?"

26 1

" Because I must have that dream I told you of no
more," said the child, with a momentary firmness that
lost itself in tears ; " and we must live among poor
people, or it will come again. Dear grandfather, you are
old and weak, I know ; but look at me. I never will com-
plain if you will not, but I have some suffering indeed."

" Ah ! poor, houseless, wandering, motherless child ! "
cried the old man, clasping his hands and gazing as if for
the first time upon her anxious face, her travel-stained
dress, and bruised and swollen feet. " Has all my agony
of care brought her to this at last ! Was I a happy man
once, and haVe I lost happiness and all I had, for this ! "

" If we were in the country now," said the child, with
assumed cheerfulness, as they walked on looking about
them for a shelter, " we should find some good old tree,
stretching out his green arms as if he loved us, and nod-
ding and rustling as if he would have us fall asleep, think-
ing of him while he watched. Please God, we shall be
there soon — to-morrow or next day at the farthest — and
in the meantime let us think, dear, that it was a good
thing we came here ; for we are lost in the crowd and
hurry of this place, and if any cruel people should pursue
us, they could surely never trace us further. There's com-
fort in that. And here's a deep old doorway — very dark,
but quite dry, and warm too, for the wind doesn't blow in
here— What's that ! "

Uttering a half shriek, she recoiled from a black figure
which came suddenly out of the dark recess in which they
were about to take refuge, and stood still looking at
them.

" Speak again,'' it said ; " do I know the voice ? "

" No,'' replied the child timidly ; " we are strangers,
and having no money for a night's lodging, were going to
rest here."

There was a feeble lamp at no great distance ; the only

262

one in the place, which was a kind of square yard, but
sufficient to show how poor and mean it was. To this, the
figure beckoned them, at the same time drawing within
its rays, as if "to show that it had no desire to conceal
itself or take them at an advantage.

The form was that of a man, miserably clad and be-
grimed with smoke, which, perhaps by its contrast with
the natural color of his skin, made him look paler than
he really was. That he was naturally of a very wan and
pallid aspect, however, his hollow cheeks, sharp features,
and sunken eyes, no less than a certain look of patient
endurance, sufficiently testified. His voice was harsh by
nature, but not brutal ; and though his face, besides
possessing the characteristics already mentioned, was
overshadowed by a quantity of long dark hair, its expres-
sion was neither ferocious nor cruel.

" How came you to think of resting there ? " he said.
" Or how," he added, looking more attentively at the
child, " do you come to want a place of rest at this time
of night ? "

" Our misfortunes," the grandfather answered, " are
the cause."

" Do you know," said the man, looking still more
earnestly at Nell, " how wet she is, and that the damp
streets are not a place for her ? "

" I know it well, God help me," he replied. " What can
I do ! "

The man looked at Nell again, and gently touched her
garments, from which the rain was running off in little
streams. " I can give you warmth," he said, after a
pause, " nothing else. Such lodging as I have is in that
house," pointing to the doorway from which he had em-
erged, " but she is safer and better there than here. The
fire is in a rough place, but you can pass the night beside
it safely, if you'll trust yourselves to me. You see that
red light yonder ? "

263

They raised their eyes, and saw a lurid glare hanging
Jn the dark sky ; the dull reflection of some distant fire.

" It's not far," said the man. " Shall I take you there ?
You were going to sleep upon cold bricks ; I can give you
a bed of warm ashes — nothing better."

Without waiting for any further reply than he saw in
their looks, he took Nell in his arms, and bade the old
man follow.

Carrying her as tenderly, and as easily too, as if she had
been an infant, and showing himself both swift and sure
of foot, he led the way through what appeared to be the
poorest and most wretched quarter of the town ; not
turning aside to avoid the overflowing kennels or running
waterspouts, but holding his course, regardless of such
obstructions, and making his way straight through them.
They had proceeded thus in silence for some quarter of
an hour, and had lost sight of the glare to which he had
pointed, in the dark and narrow ways by which they bad
come, when it suddenly burst upon them again, stream-
ing up from the high chimney of a building close before
them.

"This is the place," he said, pausing at a door to put
Nell down and take her hand. " Don't be afraid. There's
nobody here will harm you."

•It needed a strong confidence in this assurance to in-
duce them to enter, and what they saw inside did not
diminish their apprehension and alarm. In a large and
lofty building, supported by pillars of iron, with great
black apertures in the upper walls, open to the external
air ; echoing to the roof with the beating of hammers and
roar of furnaces, mingled with the hissing of red-hot
metal plunged in water, and a hundred strange unearthly
noises never heard elsewhere ; in this gloomy place,
moving like demons among the flame and smoke, dimly
and fitfully seen, flushed and tprmented by the burning

264

fires, and wielding great weapons, a faulty blow from any
one of which must have crushed some workman's skull, a
number of men labored like giants. Others, reposing
upon heaps of coals or ashes with their faces turned to
the black vault above, slept or rested from their toil.
Others again, opening the white-hot furnace doors, cast
fuel on the flames, which came rushing and roaring forth
to meet it, and licked it up like oil. Others drew forth,
with clashing noise upon the ground, great sheets of
glowing steel, emitting an insupportable heat, and a dull
deep light like that which reddens in the eyes of savage
beasts.

Through these bewildering sights and deafening sounds,
their conductor led them to where, in a dark portion of
the building, one furnace burned by night and day — so at
least they gathered from the motion of his lips, for as
yet they could only see him speak : not hear him. The
man who had been watching this fire, and whose task was
ended for the present, gladly withdrew, and left them
with their friend, who, spreading Nell's little cloak upon
a heap of ashes, and showing her where she could hang
her outer clothes to dry, signed to her and the old man to
lie down and sleep. For himself, he took his station on a
rugged mat before the furnace door, and resting his chin
upon his hands, watched the flame as it shone through the
iron chinks, and the white ashes as they fell into their
bright, hot grave below.

The warmth of her bed, hard and humble as it was,
combined with the great fatigue she had undergone, soon
caused the tumult of the place to fall with a gentler sound
upon the child's tired ears, and was not long in lulling her
to sleep. The old man was stretched beside her, and
with her hand upon his neck she lay and dreamed.

It was yet night when she awoke, nor did she know
how long, or how short a time, she had slept. But she

26s

found herself protected, both from any cold air that might
find its way into the building, and from the scorching
heat, by some of the workmen's clothes ; and glancing at
their friend saw that he sat in exactly the same attitude,
looking with a fixed earnestness of attention towards the
fire, and keeping so very still that he did not even seem
to breathe. She lay in the state between sleeping and
waking, looking so long at his motionless figure that at
length she almost feared he had died as he sat there; and,
softly rising and drawing close to him, ventured to
whisper in his ear.

He moved, and glancing from her to the place she had
lately occupied, as if to assure himself that it was really
the child so near him, looked inquiringly into her face.

" I feared you were ill," she said. " The other men are
all in motion, and you are so very quiet."

"They leave me to myself," he replied. " They know
my humor. They laugh at me, but don't harm me in it.
See yonder there — that's my friend."

" The fire ? " said the child.

" It has been alive as long as I have," the man made
answer. " We talk and think together all night long."

The child glanced quickly at him in her surprise, but he
had turned his eyes in their former direction, and was mus-
ing as before.

" It's like a book to me," he said — " the only book I
ever learned to read ; and many an old story it tells me.
It's music, for I should know its voice among a thousand,
and there are other voices in its roar. It has its pictures,
too. You don't know how many strange faces and differ-
ent scenes I trace in the red-hot coals. It's my memory,
that fire, and shows me all my life."

The child, bending down to listen to his words, could
not help remarking with what brightened eyes he con-
tinued to speak and muse.

266

" Yes," he said, with a faint smile, " it was the same
when I was quite a baby, and crawled about it, till I fell
asleep. My father watched it then."

" Had you no mother ? " asked the child.

" No, she was dead. Women worked hard in these
parts. She worked herself to death they told me, and, as
they said so then, the fire has gone on saying the same
thing ever since. I suppose it was true. I have always
believed it."

" Were you brought up here, then ? " said the child.

" Summer and winter," he replied. " Secretly at first,
but when they found it out, they let him keep me here.
So the fire nursed me — the same fire. It has never gone
out."

" You are fond of it ? " said the child.

" Of course I am. He died before it. I saw him fall
down — just there, where those ashes are burning now —
and wondered, I remember, why it didn't help him."

" Have you been here ever since ? " asked the child.

" Ever since I came to watch it ; but there was a while
between, and a very cold, dreary while it was. It burned
all the time though, and roared and leaped when I came
back, as it used to do in our play days. You may guess
from looking at me what kind of child I was, but for all
the difference between us I was a child, and when I saw
you in the street to-night, you put me in mind of myself
as I was after he died, and made me wish to bring you to
the old fire. I thought of those old times again when I
saw you sleeping by it. You should be sleeping now.
Lie down again, poor child, lie down again."

With that he led her to her rude couch, and covering
her with the clothes with which she had found herself en-
veloped when she woke, returned to his seat, whence be
moved no more unless to feed the furnace, but remained
motignless as a statue. The child continued to watch

267

him for a little time, but soon yielded to the drowsiness
that came upon her, and, in the dark, strange place and on
the heap of ashes, slept as peacefully as if the room had
been a palace chamber, and the bed, a bed of down.

When she awoke again, broad day was shining through
the lofty openings in the walls, and, stealing in slanting
rays but midway down, seemed to make the building
darker than it had been at night. The clang and tumult
were still going on, and the remorseless fires were burning
fiercely as before ; for few changes of night and day
brought rest or quiet there.

Her friend parted his breakfast — a scanty mess of cof-
fee and some coarse bread — with the child and her grand-
father, and inquired whither they were going. She told
him that they sought some distant country place remote
from towns or even other villages, and with a faltering
tongue inquired what road they would do best to take.

" I know little of the country," he said, shaking his
head, " for such as I pass all our lives before our furnace
doors, and seldom go forth to breathe. But there are
such places yonder."

" And far from here ? " said Nell.

" Ay surely. How could they be near us, and be green
and fresh ? The road lies too, through miles and miles,
all lighted up by fires like ours — a strange black road, and
one that would frighten you by night."

" We are here and must go on," said the child boldly ;
for she saw that the old man listened with anxious ears
to this account.

" Rough people — paths never made for little feet like
yours — a dismal, blighted way — is there no turning back,
my child ? "

"There is none," cried Nell, pressing forward. " If
you can direct us, do. If not, pray do not seek to turn us
from our purpose. Indeed you do not know the danger

268

that we shun, and how right and true we are in flying from
it, or you would not try to stop us, I am sure you would
not."

" God forbid, if it is so ! " said their uncouth protector,
glancing from the eager child to her grandfather, who
hung his head and bent his eyes upon the ground. " I'll
direct you from the door, the best I can. I wish I could
do more."

He showed them, then, by which road they must leave
the town, and what course they should hold when they
had gained it. He lingered so long on these instructions,
that the child, with a fervent blessing, tore herself away,
and stayed to hear no more.

But before they had reached the corner of the lane, the
man came running after them, and, pressing her hand,
left something in it — two old, battered, smoke-incrusted
penny pieces. Who knows but they shone as brightly in
the eyes of angels as golden gifts that have been chroni-
cled on tombs ?

And thus they separated ; the child to lead her sacred
charge farther from guilt and shame ; and the laborer to
attach a fresh interest to the spot where his guests had
slept, and read new histories in his furnace fire.

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIFTH.

In all their journeying, they had never longed so
ardently, they had never so pined and wearied, for the
freedom of pure air and open country, as now. No, not
even on that memorable morning, when, deserting their
old home, they abandoned themselves to the mercies of a
strange world, and left all the dumb and senseless things
they had known and loved, behind — not even then, had they
so yearned for the fresh solitudes of wood, hillside, and

269

field, as now, when the noise and dirt and vapor of the
great manufacturing town, reeking with lean misery and
hungry wretchedness, hemmed them in on every side, and
seemed to shut out hope, and render escape impossible.

" Two days and nights ! " thought the child. " He said
two days and nights we should have to spend among such
scenes as these. Oh ! if we live to reach the country
once again, if we get clear of these dreadful places,
though it is only to lie down and die, with what a grate-
ful heart I shall thank God for so much mercy ! "

With thoughts like this, and with some vague design of
traveling to a great distance among streams and moun-
tains, where only very poor and simple people lived, and
where they might maintain themselves by very humble
helping work in farms, free from such terrors as that from
which they fled, — the child, with no resource but the poor
man's gift, and no encouragement but that which flowed
from her own heart, and its sense of the truth and right
of what she did, nerved herself to this last journey and
boldly pursued her task.

" We shall be very slow to-day, dear," she said, as they
toiled painfully through the streets ; " my feet are sore,
and I have pains in all my limbs from the wet of yester-
day. I saw that he looked at us and thought of that,
when he said how long we should be upon the road."

" It was a dreary way he told us of," returned her
grandfather, piteously. " Is there no other road ? Will
you not let me go some other way than this ?"

" Places lie beyond these," said the child, firmly,
" where we may live in peace, and be tempted to do no
harm. We will take the road that promises to have that
end, and we would not turn out of it, if it were a hundred
times worse than our fears lead us to expect. We would
not, dear, would we ? "

" No," replied the old man, wavering in his voice, no

2/0

less than in his manner. " No. Let us go on. I am
ready. I am quite ready, Nell."

The child walked with more difficulty than she had led
her companion to expect, for the pains that racked her
joints were of no common severity, and every exertion
increased them. But they wrung from her no complaint, .
or look of suffering ; and, though the two travelers pro-
ceeded very slowly, they did proceed ; and clearing the
town in course of time, began to feel that they were fairly
on their way.

With less and less of hope or strength, as they went on,
but with an undiminished resolution not to betray by any
word or sign her sinking state, so long as she had energy
to move, the child throughout the remainder of that hard
day compelled herself to proceed ; not even stopping to
rest as frequently as usual, to compensate in some measure
for the tardy pace at which she was obliged to walk.
Evening was drawing on, but had not closed in, when —
still traveling among the same dismal objects — they came
to a busy town.

Faint and spiritless as they were, its streets were in-
supportable. After humbly asking for relief at some few
doors and being repulsed, they agreed to make their way
out of it as speedily as they could, and try if the inmates
of any lone house beyond would have more pity on their
exhausted state.

They were dragging themselves along through the last
street, and the child felt that the time was close at hand
when her enfeebled powers would bear no more. There
appeared before them, at this juncture, going in the same
direction as themselves, a traveler on foot, who, with a
portmanteau strapped to his back, leaned upon a stout
stick as he walked, and read from a book which he held in
his other hand.

It was not an easy matter to come up with him, and

271

beseech his aid, for he walked fast, and was a little dis-
tance in advance. At length he stopped to look more
attentively at some passage in his book. Animated with
a ray of hope, the child shot on before her grandfather,
and, going close to the stranger without rousing him by
the sound of her footsteps, began in a few faint words to
implore his help.

He turned his head, the child clapped her hands to-
gether, uttered a wild shriek, and fell senseless at his
feet.

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SIXTH.

It was the poor schoolmaster. No other than the
poor schoolmaster. Scarcely less moved and surprised
by the sight of the child than she had been on recogniz-
ing him, he stood for a moment silent and confounded by
this unexpected apparition, without even the presence of
mind to raise her from the ground.

But quickly recovering his self-possession, he threw
down his stick and book, and dropping on one knee be-
side her, endeavored, by such simple means as occurred
to him, to restore her to herself ; while her grandfather,
standing idly by, wrung his hands, and implored her with
many endearing expressions to speak to him, were it only
a word.

" She is quite exhausted," said the schoolmaster, glanc-
ing upward into his face. "You have taxed her powers
too far, friend."

" She is perishing of want," rejoined the old man. " I
never thought how weak and ill she was, till now."

Casting a look upon him, half reproachful and half
compassionate, the schoolmaster took the child in his
arms, and, bidding the old man gather up her little bas-

^^^

ket and follow him directly, bore her away at his utmost
speed.

There was a small inn within sight, to which it would
seem he had been directing his steps when so unex-
pectedly overtaken. Towards this place he hurried with
his unconscious burden, and rushing into the kitchen, and
calling upon the company there assembled to make way
for God's sake, deposited it on a chair before the fire.

The company, who rose in confusion upon the school-
master's entrance, did as people usually do under such
circumstances. Everybody called for his or her favorite
remedy, which nobody brought; each cried for more air, at
the same time carefully excluding what air there was, by
closing round the object of sympathy ; and all wondered
why somebody else didn't do what it never appeared to
occur to them might be done by themselves.

The landlady, however, who possessed more readiness
and activity than any of them, and who had withal a
quicker perception of the merits of the case, soon came
running in, with a little hot brandy and water, followed by
her servant girl, carrying vinegar, hartshorn, smelling salts,
and such other restoratives ; which, being duly adminis-
tered, recovered the child so far as to enable her to thank
them in a faint voice, and to extend her hand to the poor
schoolmaster, who stood with an anxious face, hard by.
Without suffering her to speak another word, or so much
as to stir a finger any more, the women straightway
carried her off to bed ; and having covered her up warm,
bathed her cold feet, and wrapped them in flannel, they
despatched a messenger for the doctor.

The doctor, who was a red-nosed gentleman with a
great bunch of seals dangling below a waistcoat of ribbed
black satin, arrived with all speed, and taking his seat by
the bedside of poor Nell, drew out his watch, and felt her
pulse. Then he looked at her tongue, then he felt her

pulse again, and while he did so, he eyed the half-emptied
wineglass as if in profound abstraction.

" I should give her — " said the doctor at length, " a tea-
spoonful, every now and then, of hot brandy and water.''

" Why, that's exactly what we've done, Sir ! " said the
delighted landlady.

" I should also," observed the doctor, who had passed
the footbath on the stairs, " I should also," said the doc-
tor, in the voice of an oracle, " put her feet in hot water,
and wrap them up in flannel. " I should likewise," said
the doctor with increased solemnity, " give her some-
thing ligh-t for supper — the wing of a roasted fowl now — "

" Why, goodness gracious me, Sir, it's cooking at the
kitchen fire this instant 1 " cried the landlady. And so
indeed it was, for the schoolmaster had .ordered it to be
put down, and it was getting on so well that the doctor
might have smelt it if he had tried — perhaps he did.

" You may then," said the doctor, rising gravely, " give
her a glass of hot, mulled port wine, if she likes wine — "

" And a toast, Sir ? " suggested the landlady.

" Ay," said the doctor, in the tone of a man who makes
a dignified concession. " And a toast — of bread. But be
very particular to make it of bread, if you please, ma'am."

With which parting injunction, slowly and portentously
delivered, the doctor departed, leaving the whole house in
admiration of that wisdom which tallied so closely with
their own. Everybody said he was a very shrewd doctor
indeed, and knew perfectly what people's constitutions
were ; which there appears some reason to suppose he did.

While her supper was preparing, the child fell into a re-
freshing sleep, from which they were obliged to rouse her
when it was ready. As she evinced extraordinary un-
easiness on learning that her grandfather was below stairs,
and as she was greatly troubled at the thought of their
being apart, he took his supper with her. Finding her

Little Nett.—xi.

274

still very restless on this head, they made him up a bed in
an inner room, to which he presently retired. The key
of this chamber happened by good fortune to be on that
side of the door which was in Nell's room ; she turned it
on him when the landlady had withdrawn, and crept to
bed again with a thankful heart.

The schoolmaster sat for a long time smoking his pipe
by the kitchen fire, which was now deserted, thinking,
with a very happy face, on the fortunate chance which
had brought him so opportunely to the child's assistance,
and parrying, as well as in his simple way he could, the
inquisitive cross-examination of the landlady, who had a
great curiosity to be made acquainted with every particu-
lar of Nell's life and history. The poor schoolmaster was
so open-hearted, and so little versed in the most ordinary
cunning or deceit, that she could not have failed to suc-
ceed in the first five minutes, but that he happened to be
unacquainted with what she wished to know ; and so he
told her. The landlady, by no means satisfied with this
assurance, which she considered an ingenious evasion of
the question, rejoined that he had his reasons of course.
Heaven forbid that she- should wish to pry into the affairs
or her customers, which indeed were no business of hers,
who had so many of her own. She had merely asked a
civil question, and to be sure she knew it would meet with
a civil answer. She was quite satisfied — quite. She had
rather perhaps that he would have said at once that he
didn't choose to be communicative, because that would
have been plain and intelligible. However, she had no
right to be offended, of course. He was the best judge,
and had a perfect right to say what he pleased ; nobody
could dispute that, for a moment. Oh dear, no !

" I assure you, my good lady," said the mild school-
master, " that I have told you the plain truth — as I hope
to be saved, I have told you the truth."

275

" Why then, I do believe you are in earnest," rejoined
the landlady, with ready good humor, " and I'm very
sorry I have teased you. But curiosity, you know, is the
curse of our sex, and that's the fact,"

The landlord scratched his head, as if he thought the
curse sometimes involved the other sex likewise ; but he
was prevented from making any remark to that effect, if
he had it in contemplation to do so, by the schoolmaster's
rejoinder.

" You should question me for half-a-dozen hours at a
sitting, and welcome, and I would answer you patiently
for the kindness of heart you have shown to-night, if I
could," he said. " As it is, please to take care of her in
the morning, and let me know early how she is ; and to
understand that I am paymaster for the three."

So, parting with them on most friendly terms, not the
less cordial perhaps for this last direction, the school-
master went to his bed, and the host and hostess to
theirs.

The report in the morning was, that the child was bet-
ter, but was extremely weak, and would at least require a
day's rest, and careful nursing, before she could proceed
upon her journey. The schoolmaster received this com-
munication with perfect cheerfulness, observing that he
had a day to spare — two days for that matter — and could
very well afford to wait. As the patient was to sit up in
the evening, he appointed to visit her in her room at
a certain hour, and rambling out with his book, did not
return until the hour arrived.

Nell could not help weeping when they were left alone ;
whereat, and at sight of her pale face and wasted figure,
the simple schoolmaster shed a few tears himself, at the
same time showing in very energetic language how foolish
it was to do so, and how very easily it could be avoided,
if one tried.

2?6

" It makes me . unhappy even in the midst of all this
kindness," said the child, " to think that we should be a
burden upon you. How can I ever thank you ? If I had
not met you so far from home, I must have died, and he
would have been left alone."

" We'll not talk about dying," said the schoolmaster ;
" and as to burdens, I have made my fortune since you
slept at my cottage."

" Indeed ! " cried the child joyfully.

"Oh yes," returned her friend. "I have been ap-
pointed clerk and schoolmaster to a village a long way
from here — and a long way from the old one as you may
suppose — at five-and-thirty pounds a year. Five-and-
thirty pounds ! "

"I am very glad," said the child — "so very, very
glad."

" I am on my way there now," resumed the school-
master. " They allowed me the stagecoach hire — outside
stagecoach hire all the way. Bless you, they grudge me
nothing. But as the time at which I am expected there
left me ample leisure, I determined to walk instead. How
glad I am to think I did so !*'

" How glad should we be ! "

" Yes, yes," said the schoolmaster, moving restlessly in
his chair, " certainly, that's very true. But you — where
are you going, where are you coming from, what have you
been doing since you left me, what had you been doing
before ? Now, tell me — do tell me. I know very little
of the world, and perhaps you are better fitted to advise
me in its affairs than I am qualified to give advice to you ;
but I am very sincere, and I have a reason (you have not
forgotten it) for loving you. I have felt since that time
as if my love for him who died had been transferred to
you who stood beside his bed. If this," he added, look-
ing upwards, " is the beautiful creation that springs from

2J7

ashes, let its peace prosper with- me, as I deal tenderly
and compassionately by this young child ! "

The plain, frank kindness of the honest schoolmaster,
the affectionate earnestness of his speech and manner,
the truth which was stamped upon his every word and
look, gave the child a confidence in him, which the ut-
most arts of treachery and dissimulation could never have
awakened in her breast. She told him all — that they had
no friend or relative^that she had fled with the old man,
to save him from a madhouse and all the miseries he
dreaded — that she was flying now, to save him from him-
self — and that she sought an asylum in some remote and
primitive place, where the temptation before which he fell
would never enter, and her late sorrows and distresses
could have no place.

The schoolmaster heard her with astonishment. " This
child ! " — he thought — " Has this child heroically per-
severed under all doubts and dangers, struggled with
poverty and suffering, upheld and sustained by strong
affection and the consciousness of rectitude alone ! And
yet the world is full of such heroism. Have I yet to learn
that the hardest and best borne trials are those which are
never chronicled in any earthly record, and are suffered
every day ! And should I be surprised to hear the story
of this child ! "

What more he thought or said, matters not. It was
concluded that Nell and her grandfather should accom-
pany him to the village whither he was bound, and that
he should endeavor to find them some humble occupation
by which they could subsist. " We shall be sure to suc-
ceed," said the schoolmaster, heartily. " The cause is too
good a one to fail."

They arranged to proceed upon their journey next
evening, as a stage wagon, which traveled for some dis-
tance on the same road as they must take, would stop at

278

the inn to change horses, and the driver for a small grat-
uity would give Nell a place inside. A bargain was soon
struck when the wagon came ; and in due time it rolled
away, with the child comfortably bestowed among the
softer packages, her grandfather and the schoolmaster
walking on beside the driver, and the landlady and all the
good folks of the inn screaming out their good wishes and
farewells.

What a soothing, luxurious, drowsy way of traveling, to
lie inside that slowly moving mountain, listening to the
tinkling of the horses' bells, the occasional smacking of the
carter's whip, the smooth rolling of the great broad
wheels, the rattle of the harness, the cheery good nights
of passing travelers jogging past on little short-stepped
horses — all made pleasantly indistinct by the thick awn-
ing, which seemed made for lazy listening under, till one
fell asleep ! The very going to sleep, still with an indis-
tinct idea, as the head jogged to and fro upon the pillow,
of moving onward with no trouble or fatigue, and hearing
all these sounds like dreamy music, lulling to the senses
— and the slow waking up, and finding one's self staring
out through the breezy curtain half-opened in the front,
far up into the cold bright sky with its countless stars,
and downward at the driver's lantern dancing on like its
namesake Jack of the swamps and marshes, and sideways
at the dark, grim trees, and forward at the long, bare road
rising up, up, up, until it stopped abruptly at a sharp high
ridge as if there were no more road, and all beyond was
sky — and the stopping at the inn to bait, and being helped
out, and going into a room with fire and candles, and
winking very much, and being agreeably reminded that
the night was cold, and anxious for very comfort's sake to
think it colder than it was ! — What a delicious journey
was that journey in the wagon !

Then the going on again — so fresh at first, and shortly

279

afterwards so sleepy. The waking from a sound nap as
the mail came dashing past like a highway comet, with
gleaming lamps and rattling hoofs, and visions of a guard
behind, standing up to keep his feet warm, and of a
gentleman in a fur cap opening his eyes and looking wild
and stupefied — the stopping at the turnpike where the man
was gone to bed, and knocking at the door until he an-
swered with a smothered shout from under the bedclothes
in the little room above, where the faint light was burning,
and presently came down, night-capped and shivering, to
throw the gate wide open, and wish all wagons off the
road except by day. The cold, sharp interval between
night and morning — the distant streak of light widening
and spreading, and turning from gray to white, and from
white to yellow, and from yellow to burning red — the pres-
ence of day, with all its cheerfulness and life — men and
horses at the p!ow — birds in the trees and hedges, and
boys in solitary fields, frightening them away with rattles.
The coming to a town — people busy in the markets ; light
carts and chaises round the tavern yard ; tradesmen
standing at their doors; men running horses up and down
the street for sale ; pigs plunging and grunting in the
dirty distance, getting off with long strings at their legs,
running into clean chemists' shops and being dislodged
with brooms by 'prentices; the night coach changing
horses — the passengers cheerless, cold, ugly, and discon-
tented, with three months' growth of hair in one night —
the coachman fresh as from a bandbox, and exquisitely
beautiful by contrast : — so much bustle, so many things
in motion, such a variety of incidents — when was there
a journey with so many delights as that journey in the
wagon !

Sometimes, walking for a mile or two while her grand-
father rode inside, and sometimes even prevailing upon
the schoolmaster to take her place and lie down to rest,

28o

Nell traveled on very happily until they came to a large
town, where the wagon stopped, and where they spent a
night. They passed a large church ; and in the streets
were a number of old houses, built of a kind of earth or
plaster, crossed and recrossed in a great many directions
with black beams, which gave them a remarkable and. very
ancient look. The doors, too, were arched and low, some
with oaken portals and quaint benches, where the former
inhabitants had sat on summer evenings. The windows
were latticed in little diamond panes, that seemed to wink
and blink upon the passengers as if they were dim of
sight. They had long since got clear of the smoke and
furnaces, except in one or two solitary instances, where a
factory planted among fields withered the space about it,
like a burning mountain. When they had passed through
this town, they entered again upon the country, and be-
gan to draw near their place of destination.

It was not so near, however, but that they spent another
night upon the road ; not that their doing so was quite an
act of necessity, but that the schoolmaster, when they
approached within a few miles of his village, had a fidgety
sense of his dignity as the new clerk, and was unwilling
to make his entry in dusty shoes, and travel-disordered
dress. It was a fine, clear, autumn morning, when they
came upon the scene of his promotion, and stopped to
contemplate its beauties.

" See — here's the church ! " cried the delighted school-
master, in a low voice ; " and that old building close be-
side it, is the schoolhouse, I'll be sworn. Five-and-thirty
pounds a year in this beautiful place ! '*

They admired everything — the old gray porch, the
mullioned windows, the venerable gravestones dotting
the green churchyard, the ancient tower, the very
weathercock ; the brown thatched roofs of cottage, barn,
and homestead, peeping from among the trees ; the

28l

stream that rippled by the distant watermill ; the blue
Welsh mountains far away. It was for such a spot the
child had wearied in the dense, dark, miserable haunts of
labor. Upon her bed of ashes, and amidst the squalid
horrors through which they had forced their way, visions
of such scenes — beautiful indeed, but not more beautiful
than this sweet reality — had been always present to her
mind. They had seemed to melt into a dim and airy dis-
tance, as the prospect of ever beholding them again grew
fainter ; but, as they receded, she had loved and panted
for them more.

" I must leave you somewhere for a few minutes," said
the schoolmaster, at length breaking the silence into
which they had fallen in their gladness. " I have a letter
to present, and inquiries to make, you know. Where shall
I take you ? To the little inn yonder ? "

" Let us wait here," rejoined Nell. " The gate is open.
We will sit in the church porch till you come back."

" A good place, too," said the schoolmaster, leading the
way towards it, disencumbering himself of his portman-
teau, and placing it on the stone seat. " Be sure that I
come back with good news, and am not long gone."

So the happy schoolmaster put on a brand-new pair of
gloves which he had carried in a little parcel in his pocket
all the way, and hurried off, full of ardor and excitement.

The child watched him from the porch until the inter-
vening foliage hid him from her view, and then stepped
softly out into the old churchyard — so solemn and quiet,
that every rustle of her dress upon the fallen leaves,
which strewed the path and made her footsteps noiseless,
seemed an invasion of its silence. It was a very aged,
ghostly place ; the church had been built many hundreds
of years ago, and had once had a convent or monastery
attached ; for arches in ruins, remains of oriel windows,
and fragments of blackened walls, were yet standing ;

282

while other portions of the old building, which had crum-
bled away and fallen down, were mingled with the church-
yard earth and overgrown with grass, as if they, too,
claimed a burying place and sought to mix their ashes
with the dust of men. Hard by these gravestones of
dead years, and forming a part of the ruin which some
pains had been taken to render habitable in modern times,
were two small dwellings with sunken windows and oaken
doors, fast hastening to decay, empty and desolate.

Upon these tenements, the attention of the child be-
came exclusively riveted. She knew not why. The
church, the ruin, the antiquated graves, had equal claims
at least upon a stranger's thoughts, but from the moment
when her eyes first rested on these two dwellings, she
could turn to nothing else. Even when she had made the
circuit of the inclosure, and, returning to the porch, sat
pensively waiting for their friend, she took her station
where she could still look upon them, and felt as if fasci-
nated towards that spot.

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SEVENTH.

Kit's mother and the single gentleman — upon whose
track it is expedient to follow with hurried steps, lest this
history should be chargeable with inconstancy, and the
offense of leaving its characters in situations of uncer-
tainty and doubt — Kit's mother and the single gentleman,
speeding onward in the post chaise and four whose de-
parture from the notary's door we have already witnessed,
soon left the town behind them, and struck fire from the
flints of the broad highway.

The good woman, being not a little embarrassed by the
novelty of her situation, and certain maternal apprehen-
sions that perhaps by this time little Jacob, or the baby,

283

or both, had fallen into the fire, or tumbled downstairs,
or had been squeezed behind doors, or had scalded their
windpipes in endeavoring to allay their, thirst at the
spouts of teakettles, preserved an uneasy silence ; and
meeting from the window the eyes of turnpike men, omni-
bus drivers, and others, felt, in the new dignity of her
position, like a mourner at a funeral, who, not being greatly
afflicted by the loss of the departed, recognizes his every-
day acquaintance from the window of the mourning coach,
but is constrained to preserve a decent solemnity, and the
appearance of being indifferent to all external objects.

To have been indifferent to the companionship of the
single gentleman would have been tantamount to being
gifted with nerves of steel. Never did chaise inclose, or
horses draw, such a restless gentleman as he. He never
sat in the same position for two minutes together, but was
perpetually tossing his arms and legs about, pulling up
the sashes and letting them violently down, or thrusting
his head out of one window to draw it in again and thrust
it out of another. He carried in his pocket, too, a fire box
of mysterious and unknown construction ; and as sure as
ever Kit's mother closed her eyes, so surely — whisk, rattle,
fizz — there was the single gentleman consulting his watch
by a flame of fire, and letting the sparks fall down among
the straw as if they were no such thing as a possibility of
himself and Kit's mother being roasted alive before the
boys could stop their horses. Whenever they halted to
change, there he was — out of the carriage without letting
down the steps, bursting about the inn yard like a lighted
cracker, pulling out his watch by lamplight and forget-
ting to look at it before he put it up again, and in short
committing so many extravagances that Kit's mother was
quite afraid of him. Then, when the horses were to, in he
came like a harlequin, and before they had gone a mile,
out came the watch and the fire box together, and Kit's

284

mother was wide awake again, with no hope of a wink of
sleep for that stage.

In this way they traveled on until near midnight, when
they stopped to supper, for which meal the single gentle-
man ordered everything eatable that the house contained ;
and because Kit's mother didn't eat everything at once,
and eat it all, he took it into his head that she must be
ill.

"You're faint," said the single gentleman, who did
nothing himself but walk about the room. " I see what's
the matter with you, ma'am. You're faint."

"Thank you, Sir, I'm not indeed."

" I know you are. I'm sure of it. I drag this poor
woman from the bosom of her family at a minute's notice,
and she goes on getting fainter and fainter before my
eyes. I'm a pretty fellow ! How many children have
you got, ma'am ? "

" Two, Sir, besides Kit."

" Boys, ma'am ? "

" Yes, Sir."

" Are they christened ?"

" Only half baptized, as yet, Sir."

" I'm godfather to both of 'em. Remember that, if you
please, ma'am. You had better have some mulled wine."

" I couldn't touch a drop, indeed, Sir."

"You must," said the single gentleman. "I see you
want it. I ought to have thought of it before."

Immediately flying to the bell, and calling for mulled
wine as impetuously as if it had been wanted for instant
use in the recovery of some person apparently drowned,
the single gentleman made Kit's mother swallow a bumper
of it at such a high temperature that the tears ran down
her face, and then hustled her off to the chaise again,
where — not impossibly from the effects of this agreeable
sedative — she soon became insensible to his restlessness,

285

and fell fast asleep. Nor were the happy effects of this
prescription of a transitory nature, as, notwithstanding
that the distance was greater, and the journey longer,
than the single gentleman had anticipated, she did not
awake until it was broad day, and they were clattering
over the pavement of a town.

"This fe the place ! "cried her companion, letting down
all the glasses. " Drive to the waxwork ! "

The boy on the wheeler touched his hat, and setting
spurs to his horse, to the end that they might go in bril-
liantly, all four broke into a smart canter, and dashed
through the streets with a noise that brought the good
folks wondering to their doors and windows, and drowned
the sober voices of the town clocks as they chimed out
half-past eight. They drove up to a door round which a
crowd of persons were collected, and there stopped.

"What's this ?" said the single gentleman thrusting out
his head. " Is anything the matter here ?"

" A wedding, Sir, a wedding ! " cried several voices.
" Hurrah ! "

The single gentleman, rather bewildered by finding
himself the center of this noisy throng, alighted with the
assistance of one of the postilions, and handed out Kit's
mother, at sight of whom the populace cried out, " Here's
another wedding ! " and roared and leaped for joy.

"The world has gone mad, I think," said the single
gentleman, pressing through the concourse with his sup-
posed bride. " Stand back here, will you, and let me
knock."

Anything that makes a noise is satisfactory to a crowd.
A score of dirty hands were raised directly to knock for
him, and seldom has a knocker of equal powers been
made to produce more deafening sounds than this particu-
lar engine on the occasion in question. Having rendered
these voluntary services, the throng modestly retired a

286

little, preferring that the single gentleman should bear
their consequences alone.

" Now, Sir, what do you want ? " said a man with a large
white bow at his buttonhole, opening the door, and con-
fronting him with a very stoical aspect.

" Who has been married here, my friend ? " said the
single gentleman.

" I have."

"You! And to whom?"

"What right have you to ask?" returned the bride-
groom, eyeing him from top to toe.

" What right ! " cried the single gentleman, drawing the
arm of Kit's mother more tightly through his own, for
that good woman evidently had it in contemplation to
run away. "Aright you little dream of. Mind, good
people, if this fellow has been marrying a minor — tut,
tut, that can't be. Where is the child you have here, my
good fellow. You call her Nell. Where is she ? "

As he propounded this question, which Kit's mother
echoed, somebody in a room near at hand uttered a great
shriek, and a stout lady in a white dress came running to
the door, and supported herself upon the bridegroom's arm.

" Where is she ! " cried this lady. " What news have
you brought me ? What has become of her ? "

The single gentleman started back, and gazed upon the
face of the late Mrs. Jarley (that morning wedded to the
philosophic George, to the eternal wrath and despair of
Mr. Slum, the poet) with looks of conflicting apprehension,
disappointment, and incredulity. At length he stammered
out,

" I ask you where she is ? What do you mean ? "

" Oh, Sir ! " cried the bride, " if you have come here to do
her any good, why weren't you here a week ago ? "

" She is not — not dead ? " said the person to whom she
addressed herself, turning very pale.

287

" No, not so bad as that."

" I thank God ! " cried the single gentleman feebly.
" Let me come in."

They drew back to admit him, and when he had entered,
closed the door.

" You see in me, good people," he said, turning to the
newly-married couple, " one to whom life itself is not dearer
than the two persons whom I seek. They would not know
me. My features are strange to them, but if they or either
of them are here, take this good woman with you, and let
them see her first, for her they both know. If you deny
them from any mistaken regard or fear for them, judge of
my intentions by their recognition of this person as their
old, humble friend."

" I always said it !" cried the bride, "I knew she was
not a common child ! Alas, Sir ! we have no power to
help you, for all that we could do has been tried in vain."

With that, they related to him, without disguise or
concealment, all that they knew of Nell and her grand-
father, from their first meeting with them, down to the
time of their sudden disappearance ; adding (which was
quite true) that they had made every possible effort to
trace them, but without success ; having been at first in
great alarm for their safety, as well as on account of the
suspicions to which they themselves might one day be ex-
posed in consequence of their abrupt departure. They
dwelt upon the old man's imbecility of mind, upon the
uneasiness the child had always testified when he was
absent, upon the company he had been supposed to keep,
and upon the increased depression which had gradually
* crept over her and changed her both in health and
spirits. Whether she had missed the old man in the
night, and, knowing or conjecturing whither he had bent
his steps, had gone in pursuit, or whether they had left
the house together, they had no means of determining.

288

Certain they considered it, that there was but slender
prospect left of hearing of them again, and that whether
their flight originated with the old man, or with the child,
there was now no hope of their return.

To all this, the single gentleman listened with the air
of a man quite borne down by grief and disappointment.
He shed tears when he spoke of the grandfather, and ap-
peared in deep affliction.

Not to protract this portion of our narrative, and to
make short work of a long story, let it be briefly written
that before the interview came to a close, the single
gentleman deemed he had sufficient evidence of having
been told the truth, and that he endeavored to force
upon the bride and bridegroom an acknowledgment of
their kindness to the unfriended child, which, however,
they steadily declined accepting. In the end, the happy
couple jolted away in the caravan to spend their honey-
moon in a country excursion ; and the single gentleman
and Kit's mother stood ruefuly before their carriage door.

" Where shall we drive you, Sir ? " said the post boy.

" You may drive me," said the single gentleman, " to the
— inn," and to the inn they went.

Rumors had already got abroad that the little girl
who used to show the waxwork was the child of great
people who had been stolen from her parents in infancy,
and had only just been traced. Opinion was divided
whether she was the daughter of a prince, a duke, an earl,
a viscount, or a baron, but all agreed upon the main fact,
and that the single gentleman was her father ; and all
bent forward to catch a glimpse, though it were only of
the tip of his noble nose, as he rode away, desponding, in
his four-horse chaise.

What would he have givea to know, and what sorrow
would have been saved if he had only known, that at that
moment both child and grandfather were seated in the

289

old church porch, patiently awaiting the schoolmaster's
return !

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-EIGHTH.

Popular rumor concerning the single gentleman and
his errand, traveling from mouth to mouth, and waxing
stronger in the marvelous as it was bandied about — for
your popular rumor, unlike the rolling stone of the prov-
erb, is one which gathers a deal of moss in its wanderings
up and down, — occasioned his dismounting at the inn
door to be looked upon as an exciting and attractive
spectacle, which could scarcely be enough admired ; and
drew together a large concourse of idlers, who having
recently been, as it were, thrown out of employment by
the closing of the waxwork and the completion of the
nuptial ceremonies, considered his arrival as little else
than a special providence, and hailed it with demonstra-
tions of the liveliest joy.

Not at all participating in the general sensation, but
wearing the depressed and wearied look of one who
sought to meditate on his disappointment in silence and
privacy, the single gentleman alighted, and handed out
Kit's mother with a gloomy politeness which impressed
the lookers-on extremely. That done, he gave her his
arm and escorted her into the house, while several active
waiters ran on before as a skirmishing party, to clear the
way and to show the room which was ready for their
reception.

" Any room will do," said the single gentleman. " Let
it be near at hand, that's all."

" Close here, Sir, if you please to walk this way."

" Would the gentleman like this room ? " said a voice
as a little out of the way door at the foot of the well

Little Nell.— ig.

290

staircase flew briskly open and a head popped out.
"He's quite welcome to it. He's as welcome as flowers
in May, or coals at Christmas. Would you like this room,
Sir ? Honor me by walking in. Do me the favor, pray."

" Goodness gracious me ! " cried Kit's mother, falling
back in extreme surprise, " Only think of this ! "

She had some reason to be astonished, for the person
who proffered the gracious invitation was no other than
Daniel Quilp. The little door out of which he had thrust
his head was close to the inn larder ; and there he stood,
bowing with grotesque politeness, as much at his ease as
if the door were that of his own house, blighting all the
legs of mutton and cold roast fowls by his close com-
panionship, and looking like the evil genius of the cellars
come from under ground upon some work of mischief.

" Would you do me the honor ? " said Quilp.

" I prefer being alone," replied the single gentleman.

" Oh ! " said Quilp. And with that, he darted in again
with one jerk and clapped the little door to, like a figure
in a Dutch clock when the hour strikes.

"Why it was only last night, Sir," whispered Kit's
mother, " that I left him in the chapel."

" Indeed ! " said her fellow-passenger. " When did
that person come here, waiter ? "

" Come down by the night coach this morning, Sir."

" Humph ! And when is he going ? "

" Can't say, Sir, really."

" Beg him to walk this way," said the single gentleman.
"I should be glad to exchange a word with him, tell him.
Beg him to come at once, do you hear ? " •

The man stared on receiving these instructions, for the
single gentleman had not only displayed as much aston-
ishment as Kit's mother at sight of the dwarf, but, stand-
ing in no fear of him, had been at less pains to conceal
his dislike and repugnance. He departed on his errand,

291

however, and immediately returned, ushering in its object.

" Your servant, Sir," said the dwarf. " I encountered
your messenger halfway. I thought you'd allow me to
pay my compliments to you. I hope you're well. I hope
you're very well."

There was a short pause, while the dwarf, with half-
shut eyes and puckered face, stood waiting for an answer.
Receiving none, he turned towards his more familiar ac-
quaintance.

" Christopher's mother ! " he cried. " Such a dear lady,
such a worthy woman, so blessed in her honest son ! How
is Christopher's mother ? Have change of air and scene
improved her ? Her little family too, and Christopher ?
Do they thrive ? Do they flourish ? Are they growing
into worthy citizens, eh ? "

Making his voice ascend in the scale with every suc-
ceeding question, Mr. Quilp finished in a shrill squeak,
and subsided into the panting look which was customary
with him, and which, whether it were assumed or natural,
had equally the effect of banishing all expression from
his face, and rendering it, as far as it afforded any index
to his mood or meaning, a perfect blank.

" Mr. Quilp," said the single gentleman.

The dwarf put his hand to his great flapped ear, and
counterfeited the closest attention.

" We two have met before — "

'* Surely," cried Quilp, nodding his head. " Oh surely,
Sir. Such an honor and pleasure — it's both, Christopher's
mother, it's both — is not to be forgotten so soon. By no
means ! "

"You may remember that the day I arrived in London,
and found the house to which I drove, empty and deserted,
I was directed by some of the neighbors to you, and
waited upon you without stopping for rest or refresh-
ment ? "

292

" How precipitate that was, and yet what an earnest and
vigorous measure ! "

" I found," said the single gentleman, " you, most un-
accountably, in possession of everything that had so
recently belonged to another man, and that other man,
who up to the time of your entering upon his property
had been looked upon as affluent, reduced to sudden beg-
gary, and driven from house and home."

" We had warrant for what we did, my good Sir," re-
joined Quilp, " we had our warrant. Don't say driven
either. He went of his own accord — vanished in the
night, Sir."

" No matter," said the single gentleman angrily. " He
was gone."

"Yes, he was gone," said Quilp, with the same exasper-
ating composure. " No doubt he was gone. The only
question was, where. And it's a question still."

" Now, what am I to think," said the single gentleman,
sternly regarding him, " of you, who, plainly indisposed
to give me any information then — nay, obviously holding
back, and sheltering yourself with all kinds of cunning,
trickery, and evasion, — are dogging my footsteps now ? "

" I dogging ! " cried Quilp.

"•Why, are you not ? " returned his questioner, fretted
into a state of the utmost irritation. " Were you not, a
few hours since, sixty miles off, and in the chapel to which
this good woman goes to say her prayers ? "

" She was there too, I think ? " said Quilp, still perfectly
unmoved. " I might say, if I was inclined to be rude, how
do I know but you are dogging my footsteps. Yes, I was
at chapel. What then ? I've read in books that pilgrims
were used to go to chapel before they went on journeys,
to put up petitions for their safe return. Wise men !
journeys are very perilous — especially outside the coach.
Wheels come off, horses take fright, coachmen drive too

293

fast, coaches overturn. I always go to chapel before I
start on journeys. It's the last thing I do on such occa-
sions, indeed."

That Quilp lied most heartily in this speech, it needed
no very great penetration to discover, although for any-
thing that he suffered to appear in his face, voice or man-
ner, he might have been clinging to the truth with the
quiet constancy of a martyr.

" In the name of all that's calculated to drive one crazy,
man," said the unfortunate single gentleman, " have you
not, for some reason of your own, taken upon yourself
my errand ? Don't you know with what object I have come
here, and if you do know, can you throw no light upon
it?"

" You think I'm a conjurer, Sir," replied Quilp, shrug-
ging up his shoulders. " If I was, I should tell my own
fortune — and make it."

" Ah ! we have said all we need say, I see," returned the
other, throwing himself impatiently upon a sofa. " Pray
leave us, if you please."

" Willingly," returned Quilp. " Most willingly. Chris-
topher's mother, my good soul, farewell. A pleasant
journey — back, Sir. Ahem ! "

With these parting words, and with a grin upon his
features altogether indescribable, but which seemed to be
compounded of every monstrous grimace of which men or
monkeys are capable, the dwarf slowly retreated and
closed the door behind him.

" Oho ! " he said when he had regained his own room,
and sat himself down in a chair with his arms akimbo.
" Oho ! Are you there, my friend ? In-deed ! ''

Chuckling as though in very great glee, and recompens-
ing himself for the restraint he had lately put upon his
countenance by twisting it into all imaginable varieties of
ugliness, Mr. Quilp, rocking himself to and fro in his chair

294

and nursing his left leg at the same time, fell into certain
meditations, of which it may be neccessary to relate the
substance.

First, he reviewed the circumstances which had led to
his repairing to that spot, which were briefly these.
Dropping in at Mr. Sampson Brass's office on the previous
evening, he learned that that gentleman had made strange
discoveries in connection with the single gentleman who
lodged above, that the single gentleman had been seen in
communication with Kit.

Possessed of this piece of information, Mr. Quilp directly
supposed that the single gentleman above stairs must be
the same individual who had waited on him, and having
assured himself by further inquiries that this surmise was
correct, had no difficulty in arriving at the conclusion
that the intent and object of his correspondence with Kit
was the recovery of his old client and the child. Burning
with curiosity to know what proceedings were afoot, he
resolved to pounce upon Kit's mother as the person least
able to resist his arts, and consequently the most likely
to be entrapped into such revelations as he sought ;
so taking an abrupt leave, he hurried to her house. The
good woman being from home, he made inquiries of a
neighbor, as Kit himself did soon afterwards, and being
directed to the chapel betook himself there, in order to
waylay her, at the conclusion of the service.

He had not sat in the chapel more than a quarter of an
hour, and with his eyes piously fixed upon the ceiling was
chuckling inwardly over the joke of his being there at all,
when Kit himself appeared. Watchful as a .lynx, one
glance showed the dwarf that he had come on business.
Absorbed in appearance, as we have seen, and feigning a
profound abstraction, he noted every circumstance of his
behavior, and when he withdrew with his family, shot
out after him. In fine, he traced them to the notary's

2 9 5

house ; learned the destination of the carriage from one of
the postilions ; and knowing that a fast night coach started
for the same place, at the very hour which was on the
point of striking, from a street hard by, darted round to
the coach office without more ado, and took his seat upon
the roof. After passing and repassing the carriage on
the road, and being passed and repassed by it sundry times
in the course of the night, according as their stoppages
were longer or shorter, or their rate of traveling varied,
they reached the town almost together. Quilp kept the
chaise in sight, mingled with the crowd learned the single
gentleman's errand, and its failure, and having possessed
himself of all that it was material to know, hurried off,
reached the inn before him, had the interview just now
detailed, and shut himself up in the little room in which
he hastily reviewed all these occurrences.

" You are there, are you, my friend ? " he repeated,
greedily biting his nails. " I am suspected and thrown
aside, and Kit's the confidential agent, is he ? But for
the lad and his mother, I could get this fiery gentleman
as comfortable into my net as our old friend — our mutual
friend, ha ! ha ! — and chubby, rosy Nell. At the worst,
it's a golden opportunity, not to be lost. Let us find them
first, and I'll find means of draining you of some of your
superfluous cash, Sir, I hate your virtuous people ! " said
the dwarf, " Ah ! I hate 'em every one ! "

This was not a mere empty vaunt, but a deliberate
avowal of his real sentiments ; for Mr. Quilp, who loved
nobody, had by little and little come to hate everybody
nearly or remotely connected with his ruined client : —
the old man himself, because he had been able to deceive
him and elude his vigilance — the child, because she was
the object of Mrs. Quilp's commiseration and constant
self-reproach — the single gentleman, because of his un-
concealed aversion to himself — Kit and his mother, most

296

mortally, for the reasons already shown. Above and be-
yond that general feeling of opposition to them, which
would have been inseparable from his ravenous desire to
enrich himself by these altered circumstances, Daniel
Quilp hated them every one.

In this amiable mood, Mr. Quilp withdrew to an ob-
scure alehouse, under cover of which seclusion he in-
stituted all possible inquiries that might lead to the dis-
covery of the old man and his grandchild. But all was
in vain. Not the slightest trace or clue could be obtained.
They had left the town by night ; no one had seen them
go ; no one had met them on the road ; the driver of no
coach, cart, or wagon, had seen any travelers answering
their description; nobody had fallen in with them, or
heard of them. Convinced at last that for the present all
such attempts were hopeless, he appointed two or three
scouts, with promises of large rewards in case of their
forwarding him any intelligence, and returned to London
by next day's coach.

It was some gratification to Mr. Quilp to find, as he
took his place upon the roof, that Kit's mother was alone
inside ; from which circumstance he derived in the course
of the journey much cheerfulness of spirit, inasmuch as
her solitary condition enabled him to terrify her with
many extraordinary annoyances ; such as hanging over
the side of the coach at the risk of his life, and staring in
with his great, goggle eyes, which seemed in hers the more
horrible from his face being upside down ; dodging her in
this way from one window to another ; getting nimbly
down whenever they changed horses ' and thrusting his
head in at the window with a dismal squint ; which in-
genious tortures had such an effect upon Mrs. Nubbles,
that she was quite unable for the time to resist the belief
that Mr. Quilp did in his own person represent and em-
body some evil power.

297

Kit, having been apprised by letter of Iris-mother's in-
tended return, was waiting for her at the coach office ;
and great was his surprise when he saw, leering over the
coachman's shoulder like some familiar demon invisible
to all eyes but his, the well-known face of Quilp.

" How are you, Christopher ? " croaked the dwarf from
the coach top. "AH right, Christopher. Mother's in-
side."

" Why, how did he come here, mother ? " whispered Kit.

" I don't know how he came or why, my dear," re-
joined Mrs. Nubbles, dismounting with her son's assis-
tance, "but he has been a terrifying of me out of my
seven senses all this blessed day."

" He has ? " cried Kit.

" You wouldn't believe it, that you wouldn't," replied
his mother ; " but don't say a word to him, for I really
don't believe he's human. Hush ! Don't turn round as
if I was talking of him, but he's a squinting at me now in
the full blaze of the coach lamp, quite awful 1 "

In spite of his mother's injunction, Kit turned sharply
round to look. Mr. Quilp was serenely gazing at the
stars, quite absorbed in celestial contemplation.

" Oh, he's the artfulest creetur ! " cried Mrs. Nubbles.
" But come away. Don't speak to him for the world."

"Yes I will, mother. What nonsense. I say, Sir "

Mr. Quilp affected to start, and looked smilingly round.

" You let my mother alone, will you ? " said Kit. " How
dare you tease a poor, lone woman like her, making her
miserable and melancholy as if she hadn't got enough to
make her so, without you. An't you ashamed of yourself,
you little monster ? "

" Monster ! " said Quilp inwardly, with a smile. " Ug-
liest dwarf that could be seen anywhere for a penny —
monster — ah ! "

"You show her any of your impudence again," resumed

298

Kit, shouldering the bandbox, " and I tell you what, Mr.
Quilp, I won't bear with you any more. You have no
right to do it ; I'm sure we never interfered with you.
This isn't the first time ; and if ever you worry or frighten
her again, you'll oblige me (though I should be very sorry
to do it, on account of your size) to beat you."

Quilp said not a word in reply, but walking up so close
to Kit as to bring his eyes within two or three inches of
his face, looked fixedly at him, retreated a little distance
without averting his gaze, approached again, again with-
drew, and so on for half-a-dozen times, like a head in a
phantasmagoria. Kit stood his ground as if in expecta-
tion of an immediate assault, but finding that nothing came
of these gestures, snapped his fingers and walked away; his
mother dragging him off as fast as she could, and, even in
the midst of his news of little Jacob and the baby, looking
anxiously over her shoulder to see if Quilp were following.

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-NINTH.

We left Nell and her grandfather in the porch of the
old church waiting for the return of the schoolmaster,
who had gone to present a letter and make some inquiries.
After a long time he appeared at the wicket gate of the
churchyard, and hurried towards them, jingling in his
hand, as he came along, a bundle of rusty keys. He was
quite breathless with pleasure and haste when he reached
the porch, and at first could only point towards the old
building which the child had been contemplating so
earnestly.

" You see those two old houses," he said at last.

" Yes surely," replied Nell. " I have been looking at
them nearly all the time you have been away."

" And you would have looked at them more curiously

299

yet, if you could have guessed what I have to tell you,"
said the friend. " One of those houses is mine."

Without saying any more, or giving the child time to
reply, the schoolmaster took her hand, and, his honest
face quite radiant with exultation, led her to the place of
which he spoke.

They stopped before its low arched door. After trying
several of the keys in vain, the schoolmaster found one
to fit the huge lock, which turned back, creaking, and
admitted them into the house.

The room into which they entered was a vaulted
chamber once nobly ornamented by cunning architects,
and still retaining, in its beautiful groined roof and rich
stone tracery, choice remnants of its ancient splendor.
Foliage carved in the stone, and emulating the mastery
of Nature's hand, yet remained to tell how many times
the leaves outside had come and gone, while it lived on
unchanged. The broken figures supporting the burden
of the chimney-piece, though mutilated, were still dis-
tinguishable for what they had been — far different from
the dust without — and showed sadly by the empty hearth,
like creatures who had outlived their kind, and mourned
their own too slow decay.

In some old time — for even change was old in that old
place — a wooden partition had been constructed in one
part of the chamber to form a sleeping closet, into which
the light was admitted at the same period by a rude win-
dow, or rather niche, cut in the solid wall. This screen,
together with two seats in the broad chimney, had at
some forgotten date been part of the church or convent ;
for the oak, hastily appropriated to its present purpose,
had been little altered from its former shape, and pre-
sented to the eye a pile of fragments of rich carving from
old monkish stalls.

An open door leading to a small room or cell, dim with

300

the light that came through leaves of ivy, completed the
interior of this portion of the ruin. It was not quite
destitute of furniture. A few strange chairs, whose arms_
and legs looked as though they had dwindled away with
age ; a table, the very specter of its race ; a great old
chest that had once held records in the church, with
other quaintly-fashioned domestic necessaries, and store
of firewood for the winter, were scattered around, and
gave evident tokens of its occupation as a dwelling place
at no very distant time.

The child looked around her, with that solemn feeling
with which we contemplate the work of ages that have
become but drops of water in the great ocean of eternity.
The old man had followed them, but they were all three
hushed for a space, and drew their breath softly, as if
they feared to break the silence even by so slight a sound.

" It is a very beautiful place ! " said the child, in a low
voice.

" I almost feared you thought otherwise," returned the
schoolmaster. " You shivered when we first came in, as
if you felt it cold or gloomy."

" It was not that," said Nell, glancing round with a
slight shudder. " Indeed I cannot tell you what it was,
but when I saw the outside, from the church porch, the
same feeling came over me. It is its being so old and
gray perhaps."

" A peaceful place to live in, don't you think so ? " said
her friend.

" Oh yes," rejoined the child, clasping her hands
earnestly. " A quiet, happy place — a place to live and
learn to die in ! " She would have said more, but
that the energy of her thoughts caused her voice to falter,
and come in trembling whispers from her lips.

"A place to live, and learn to live, and gather health of
mind and body in," said the schoolmaster ; "for this old
house is yours."

3oi

" Ours ! " cried the child.

" Aye," returned the schoolmaster gaily, " for many a
merry year to come, I hope. I shall be a close neighbor
— only next door — but this house is yours."

Having now disburdened himself of his great surprise,
the schoolmaster sat down, and drawing Nell to his side,
told her how he had learned that that ancient tenement had
been occupied for a very long time by an old person,
nearly a hundred years of age, who kept the keys of the
church, opened and closed it for the services, and showed
it to strangers; how she had died not many weeks ago,
and nobody had yet been found to fill the office; how,
learning all this in an interview with the sexton, who was
confined to his bed by rheumatism, he had been bold to
make mention of his fellow-traveler, which had been so
favorably received by that high authority, that he had
taken courage, acting on his advice, to propound the mat-
ter to the clergyman. In a word, the result of his exer-
tions was, that Nell and her grandfather were to be carried
before the last-named gentleman next day; and, his ap-
proval of their conduct and appearance reserved as a
matter of form, that they were already appointed to the
■ vacant post.

" There's a small allowance of money," said the school-
master. " It is not much, but still enough to live upon
in this retired spot. By clubbing our funds together, we
shall do bravely; no fear of that."

" Heaven bless and prosper you ! " sobbed the child.

" Amen, my dear," returned her friend cheerfully; " and
all of us, as it will, and has, in leading us through sorrow
and trouble to this tranquil life. But we must look at my
house now. Come ! "

They repaised to the other tenement; tried the rusty
keys as before; at length found the right one; and opened
the worm-eaten door. It led into a chamber, vaulted and

302

old, like that from which they had come, but not so spa-
cious, and having only one other little room attached. It
was not difficult to divine that the other house was of right
the schoolmaster's, and that he had chosen for himself
the least commodious, in his care and regard for them.
Like the adjoining habitation, it held such old articles of
furniture as were absolutely necessary, and had its stack
of firewood.

To make these dwellings as habitable and full of comfort
as they could, was now their pleasant care. In a short
time, each had its cheerful fire glowing and crackling on
the hearth, and reddening the pale old wall with a hale
and healthy blush. Nell, busily plying her needle, repaired
the tattered window hangings, drew together the rents
that time had worn in the threadbare scraps of carpet,
and made them whole and decent. The schoolmaster
swept and smoothed the ground before the door, trimmed
the long grass, trained the ivy and creeping plants which
hung their drooping heads in melancholy neglect; and
gave to the outer walls a cheery air of home. The old
man, sometimes by his side and sometimes with the child,
lent his aid to both, went here and there on little patient
services, and was happy. Neighbors, too, as they came •
from work, proffered their help; or sent their children
with such small presents or loans as the strangers needed
most. It was a busy day; and night came on, and found
them wondering that there was yet so much.-to do, and.
that it should be dark so soon.

They took their supper together, in the house which
may be henceforth called the child's; and when they had
finished their meal drew round the fire, and almost in
whispers — their hearts were too quiet and glad for loud
expression — discussed their future plans. Before they
separated, the schoolmaster read some prayers aloud; and
then, full of gratitude and happiness, they parted for the
night.

3©3

At that silent hour, when her grandfather was sleeping
peacefully in bis bed, and every sound was hushed, the
child lingered before the dying embers, and thought of
her past fortunes as if they had been a dream and she
only now awake. The glare of the sinking flame, reflected
in the oaken panels whose carved tops were dimly seen
in the gloom of the dusky roof — the aged walls, where
strange shadows came and went with every flickering of
the fire — the solemn presence, within, of that decay which
falls on senseless things the most enduring in their nature ;
and, without, and round about on every side, of Death —
filled her with deep and thoughtful feelings, but with none
of terror or alarm. A change had been gradually stealing
over her, in the time of her loneliness and sorrow. With
failing strength and heightening resolution, there had
sprung up a purified and altered mind; there had grown
in her bosom blessed thoughts and hopes, which are the
portion of few but the weak and drooping. There were
none to see the frail, perishable figure, as it glided from
the fire and leaned pensively at the open casement ; none
but the stars, to look into the upturned face and read its
history. The old church bell rang out the hour with a
mournful sound, as if it had grown sad from so much
communing with the dead and unheeded warning to the
living; the fallen leaves rustled; the grass stirred upon
the graves; all else was still and sleeping.

With the brightness and joy of morning, came the re-
newal of yesterday's labors, the revival of its pleasant
thoughts, the restoration of its energies, cheerfulness, and
hope. They worked gaily in ordering and arranging
their houses until noon, and then went to visit the clergy-
man.

He was a simple-hearted old gentleman, of a shrinking,
subdued spirit, accustomed to retirement, and very little
acquainted with the world, which he had left many years

304

before to come and settle in that place. His wife had
died in the house in which he still lived, and he had long
since lost sight of any earthly cares or hopes beyond it.

He received them very kindly, and at once showed an
interest in Nell ; asking her name, and age, her birth-
place, the circumstances which had led her there, and so
forth. The schoolmaster had already told her story.
They had no other friends or home to leave, he said, and
had come to share his fortunes. He loved the child as
though she were his own.

" Well, well," said the clergyman. " Let it be as you
desire. She is very young."

"Old in adversity and trial, Sir," replied the school,
master.

" God help her ! Let her rest, and forget them," said
the old gentleman. " But an old church is a dull and
gloomy place for one so young as you, my child."

" Oh no, Sir," returned Nell. " I have no such
thoughts, indeed."

" I would rather see her dancing on the green at
nights," said the old gentleman, laying his hand upon her
head, and smiling sadly, " than have her sitting in the
shadow of our moldering arches. You must look to
this, and see that her heart does not grow heavy among
these solemn ruins. Your request is granted, friend."

After more kind words, they withdrew, and repaired to
the child's house ; where they were yet in conversation
on their happy fortune, when another friend appeared.

This was a little old gentleman, who lived in the par-
sonage house, and had resided there (so they learned soon
afterwards) ever since the death of the clergyman's wife,
which had happened fifteen years before. He had been
his college friend and always his close companion ; in the
first shock of his grief had come to console and comfort
him ; and from that time they had never parted company.

305

The little old gentleman was the active spirit of the
place ; the adjuster of all differences, the promoter of all
merrymakings, the dispenser of his friend's bounty, and
of no small charity of his own besides ; the universal
mediator, comforter, and friend. None of the simple
villagers had cared to ask his name, or, when they knew
it, to store it in their memory. Perhaps from some vague
rumor of his college honors which had been whispered
abroad on his first arrival, perhaps because he was an un-
married, unencumbered gentleman, he had been called
the Bachelor. The name pleased him, or suited him as
well as any other, and the Bachelor he had ever since re-
mained. And the Bachelor it was, it may be added, who
with his own hands had laid in the stock of fuel which the
wanderers had found in their new habitation.

The Bachelor, then — to call him by his usual appella-
tion — lifted the latch, showed his little, round, mild face
for a moment at the door, and stepped into the room like
one who was no stranger to it.

" You are Mr. Marton, the new schoolmaster ? " he said,
greeting Nell's kind friend.

"I am, Sir."

" You cOme well recommended, and I am glad to see
you. I should have been in the way yesterday, expecting
you, but I rode across the country to carry a message
from a sick mother to her daughter in service some miles
off, and have but just now returned. This is our young
church keeper ? You are not the less welcome, friend, for
her sake, or for this old man's ; nor the worst teacher for
having learned humanity."

" She has been ill, Sir, very lately," said the school-
master, in answer to the look with which their visitor re-
garded Nell when he had kissed her cheek.

"Yes, yes. I know she has," he rejoined. "There
have been suffering and heartache here."

Little Nell.— 20.

3°6

" Indeed there have, Sir."

The little old gentleman glanced at the grandfather,
and back again at the child, whose hand he took tenderly
in his, and held.

"You will be happier here," he said; "we will try, at
least, to make you so. You have made great improve-
ments here already. Are they the work of your hands ? "

" Yes, Sir."

" We may make some others — not b,etter in themselves,
but with better means perhaps," said the Bachelor. " Let
us see now, let us see."

Nell accompanied him into the other little rooms, and
over both the houses, in which he found various small
comforts wanting, which he engaged to supply from a
certain collection of odds and ends he had at home, and
which must have been a very miscellaneous and extensive
one, as it comprehended the most opposite articles imagin-
able. They all came, however, and came without loss of
time ; for the little old gentleman, disappearing for some
five or ten minutes, presently returned, laden with old
shelves, rugs, blankets, and other household gear, and
followed by a boy bearing a similar load. These being
cast on the floor in a promiscuous heap, yielded a quantity
of occupation in arranging, erecting, and putting away ;
the superintendence of which task evidently afforded the
old gentleman extreme delight, and engaged him for some
time with great briskness and activity. When nothing
more was left to be done, he charged the boy to run off
and bring his schoolmates to be marshaled before their
new master, and solemnly reviewed.

" As good a set of fellows, Marton, as you'd wish to
see," he said, turning to the schoolmaster when the boy
was gone ; " but I don't let 'em know I think so. That
wouldn't do, at all."

The messenger soon returned at the head of a long row

3°7

of urchins, great and small, who, being confronted by the
Bachelor at the house door, fell into various convulsions
of politeness ; clutching their hats and caps, squeezing
them into the smallest possible dimensions, and making
all manner of bows and scrapes, which the little old gentle-
man contemplated with excessive satisfaction, and ex-
pressed his approval of by a great many nods and smiles.
Indeed, his approbation of the boys was by no means so
scrupulously disguised as he had led the schoolmaster to
suppose, inasmuch as it broke out in sundry loud whis-
pers and confidential remarks which were perfectly
audible to them every one.

" This first boy, schoolmaster,'* said the Bachelor, " is
John Owen ; a lad of good parts, Sir, and frank, honest
temper ; but too thoughtless, too playful, too light-headed
by far. That boy, my good Sir, would break his neck
with pleasure, and deprive his parents of their chief com-
fort — and between ourselves, when you come to see him
at hare and hounds, taking the fence and ditch by the
finger post, and sliding down the face of the little quarry,
you'll never forget it. It's beautiful ! "

John Owen having been thus rebuked, and being in
perfect possession of the speech aside, the Bachelor
singled out another boy.

" Now, look at that lad, Sir," said the Bachelor. "You
see that fellow ? Richard Evans his name is, Sir. An
amazing boy to learn, blessed with a good memory, and a
ready understanding, and moreover with a good voice and
ear for psalm singing, in which he is the best among us.
Yet, Sir, that boy will come to a bad end ; he'll never die
in his bed ; he's always falling asleep in church in sermon
time— and to tell you the truth, Mr. Marton, I always did
the same at his age, and feel quite certain that it was
natural to my constitution and I couldn't help it."

This hopeful pupil edified by the above terrible re-
proval, the Bachelor turned to another.

3o8

" But if we talk of examples to be shunned," said he,
"if we come to boys that should be a warning and a
beacon to all their fellows, here's the one, and I hope you
won't spare him. This is the lad, Sir, this one with the
blue eyes and light hair. This is a swimmer, Sir, this
fellow — a diver, Lord save us ! This is a boy, Sir, who
had a fancy for plunging into eighteen feet of water, with
his clothes on, and bringing up a blind man's dog, who
was being drowned by the weight of his chain and collar,
while his master stood wringing his hands upon the bank,
bewailing the loss of his guide and friend. I sent the boy
two guineas anonymously, Sir," added the Bachelor, in his
peculiar whisper, " directly I heard of it ; but never
mention it on any account, for he hasn't the least idea that
it came from me."

Having disposed of this culprit, the Bachelor turned to
another, and from him to another, and so on through the
whole array, laying, for their wholesome restriction within
due bounds, the same cutting emphasis on such of their
propensities as were dearest to his heart and were un-
questionably referable to his own precept and example.
Thoroughly persuaded, in the end, that he had made them
miserable by his severity, he dismissed them with a small
present, and an admonition to walk quietly home, without
any leapings, scufflings, or turnings out of the way ; which
injunction (he informed the schoolmaster in the same
audible confidence) he did not think he could have obeyed
when he was a boy, had his life depended on it.

Hailing these little tokens of the Bachelor's disposition
as so many assurances of his own welcome course from
that time, the schoolmaster parted from him with a light
heart and joyous spirits, and deemed himself one of the
happiest men on earth. The windows of the two old
houses were ruddy again that night with the reflection of
the cheerful fires that burned within ; and the Bachelor and

3°9

his friend, pausing to look upon them as they returned
from their evening walk, spoke softly together of the
beautiful child, and looked round upon the churchyard
with a sigh.

CHAPTER THE FORTIETH.

Nell was stirring early in the morning; and having
discharged her household tasks, and put everything in
order for the good schoolmaster (though sorely against his
will, for he would have spared her the pains), took down,
from its nail by the fireside, a little bundle of keys with
which the Bachelor had formally invested her on the pre-
vious day, and went out alone to visit the old church.

Here was the broken pavement, worn so long ago by
pious feet, that Time, stealing on the pilgrims' steps, had
trodden out their track, and left but crumbling stones.
Here were the rotten beam, the sinking arch, the sapped
and moldering wall, the lowly trench of earth, the stately
tomb on which no epitaph remained, — all, — marble, stone,
iron, wood, and dust, one common monument of ruin.
The best work and the worst, the plainest and the richest,
the stateliest and the least imposing — both of Heaven's
work and Man's — all found one common level here, and
told one common tale.

Some part of the edifice had been a baronial chapel, and
here were effigies of warriors stretched upon their beds of
stone with folded hands, cross-legged — those who had
fought in the Holy Wars — girded with their swords, and
cased in armor as they had lived. Some of these knights
had their own weapons, helmets, coats of mail, hanging
upon the walls hard by, and dangling from rusty hooks.
Broken and dilapidated as they were, they yet retained
their ancient form, and something of their ancient aspect.

3io

Thus violent deeds live after men upon the earth, and
traces of war and bloodshed will survive in mournful
shapes, long after those who worked the desolation are but
atoms of earth themselves.

The child sat down in this old, silent place, among the
stark figures on the tombs — they made it more quiet there,
than elsewhere, to her fancy — and gazing round with a
feeling of awe, tempered with a calm delight, felt that now
she was happy, and at rest. She took a Bible from the
shelf, and read ; then, laying it down, thought of the
summer days and the bright springtime that would come
— of the rays of sun that would fall in aslant upon the
sleeping forms — of the leaves that would flutter at the
window, and play in glistening shadows on the pavement
— of the songs of birds, and growth of buds and blossoms
out of doors — of the sweet air, that would steal in and
gently wave the tattered banners overhead.

She left the chapel — very slowly and often turning back
to gaze again — and coming to a low door, which plainly
led into the tower, opened it, and climbed the winding
stair in darkness ; save where she looked down through
narrow loopholes on the place she had left, or caught a
glimmering vision of the dusty bells. At length she gained
the end of the ascent and stood upon the turret top.

Oh ! the glory of the sudden burst of light ; the fresh-
.ness of the fields and woods, stretching away on every
side and meeting the bright blue sky ; the cattle grazing
in the pasturage ; the smoke, that, coming from among
the trees, seemed to rise upward from the green earth ;
the children yet at their gambols down below — all, every-
thing, so beautiful and happy ! It was like passing from
death to life ; it was drawing nearer Heaven.

The children were gone by the time she emerged into
the porch, and locked the door. As she passed the
schoolhouse she could hear the busy hum of voices. Her

3"

friend had begun his labors only that day. The noise
grew louder, and, looking back, she saw the boys come
trooping out and disperse themselves with merry shouts
and play. " It's a good thing," thought the child, " I am
very glad they pass the church." And then she stopped,
to fancy how the noise would sound inside, and how gently
it would seem to die away upon the ear.

Again that day, yes, twice again, she stole back to the
old chapel, and in her former seat read from the same
book, or indulged the same quiet train of thought. Even
when it had grown dusk, and the shadows of coming night
made it more solemn still, the child remained like one
rooted to the spot, and had no fear, or thought of stirring.

They found her there at last, and took her home.
She looked pale but very happy, until they separated for
the night ; and then, as the poor schoolmaster stooped
down to kiss her cheek, he thought he felt a tear upon
his face.

CHAPTER THE FORTY-FIRST.

The Bachelor, among his various occupations, found in
the old church a constant source of interest and amuse-
ment. Taking that pride in it which men conceive for
the wonders of their own little world, he had made its
history his study ; and many a summer day within its
walls, and many a winter's night beside the parsonage
fire, had found the Bachelor still poring over and adding
to his goodly store of tale and legend.

As he was not one of those rough spirits who would strip
fair Truth of every little shadowy vestment in which time
and teeming fancies love to array her — and some of
which become her pleasantly enough, serving, like the
waters of her well, to add new graces to the charms they

v 312

half conceal and half suggest, and to awaken interest
and pursuit rather than languor and indifference — as, un-
like this stern and obdurate class, he loved to see the
goddess crowned with those garlands of wild flowers
which tradition wreathes for her gentle wearing, and
which are often freshest in 'their homeliest shapes, — he
trod with a light step and bore with a light hand upon
the dust of centuries, unwilling to demolish any of the
airy shrines that had been raised above it, if one good
feeling or affection of the human heart were hiding there-
abouts. Thus, in the case of an ancient coffin of rough
stone, supposed for many generations to contain the
bones of a certain baron, who, after ravaging, with cut,
and thrust, and plunder, in foreign lands, came back with
a penitent and sorrowing heart to die at home, but which
had been lately shown by learned antiquaries to be no
such thing, as the baron in question (so they contended)
had died hard in battle, gnashing his teeth and cursing
with his latest breath, — the Bachelor stoutly maintained
that the old tale was the true one ; that the baron, repent-
ing him of the evil, had done great charities and meekly
given up the ghost ; and that, if ever baron went to
heaven, that baron was then at peace. In like manner,
when the aforesaid antiquaries did argue and contend
that a certain secret vault was not the tomb of a gray-
haired lady who had been hanged and drawn and quar-
tered by glorious Queen Bess for succoring a wretched
priest who fainted of thirst and hunger at her door, the
Bachelor did solemnly maintain against all comers that
the church was hallowed by the said poor lady's ashes ;
that her remains had been collected in the night from
four of the city's gates, and thither in secret brought,
and there deposited ; and the Bachelor did further
(being highly excited at such times) deny the glory of
Queen Bess, and assert the immeasurably greater glory

3^3

of the meanest woman in her realm who had a merciful
and tender heart. As to the assertion that the flat stone
near the door was not the grave of the miser who had
disowned his only child and left a sum of money to the
church to buy a peal of bells, the Bachelor did readily
admit the same, and that the place had given birth to
no such man. In a word, he would have had every stone,
and plate of brass, the monument only of deeds whose
memory should survive. All others he was willing to
forget. They might be buried in consecrated ground,
but he would have had them buried deep, and never
brought to light again.

It was from the lips of such a tutor, that the child
learned her easy task. Already impressed, beyond all
telling, by the silent building and the peaceful beauty
of the spot in which it stood — majestic age surrounded
by perpetual youth — it seemed to her, when she heard
these things, sacred to all goodness and virtue. It was
another world, where sin and sorrow never came ; a
tranquil place of rest, where nothing evil entered.

When the Bachelor had given her in connection with
almost every tomb and flat gravestone some history of
its own, he took her down into the old crypt, now a
mere dull vault, and showed her how it had been lighted
up in the time of the monks, and how, amid lamps de-
pending from the roof, and swinging censers exhaling
scented odors, and habits glittering with gold and silver,
and pictures, and precious stuffs, and jewels all flashing
and glistening through the low arches, the chant of
aged voices had been many a time heard there at mid-
night in old days, while hooded figures knelt and prayed
around, and told their rosaries of beads. Thence, he
took her above ground again, and showed her, high up
in the old walls, small galleries, where the nuns had been
wont to glide along — dimly seen in their dark dresses so

3H

far off — or to pause like gloomy shadows, listening to
the prayers. He showed her too, how the warriors,
whose figures rested on the tombs, had worn those rotting
scraps of armor up above — how this had been a helmet,
and that a shield, and that a gauntlet — and how they had
wielded the great two-handed swords, and beaten men
down with yonder iron mace. All that he told the child
she treasured in her mind ; and sometimes, when she
woke at night from dreams of those old times, and rising
from her bed looked out at the dark church, she almost
hoped to see the windows lighted up, and hear the organ's
swell, and sound of voices, on the rushing wind.

From the old sexton the child learned many other things,
though of a different kind. He was not able to work,
but one day there was a grave to be made, and he came to
overlook the man who dug it. He was in a talkative
mood ; and the child, at first standing by his side, and
afterwards sitting on the grass at his feet, with her
thoughtful face raised towards his, began to converse
with him.

" You were telling me," she said, " about your garden-
ing. Do you ever plant things here ? ''

" In the churchyard ? " returned the sexton, " Not I."

" I have seen some flowers and little shrubs about,"
the child rejoined ; " there are some over there, you see.
I thought they were of your rearing, though indeed they
grow but poorly."

" They grow as Heaven wills," said the old man ; " and
it kindly ordains that they shall never flourish here."

" I do not understand you."

" Why, this it is," said the sexton. " They mark the
graves of those who had very tender, loving friends."

" I was sure they did ! " the child exclaimed. " I am
very glad to know they do !"

" Ay," returned the old man, " but stay. Look at

315

them. See how they hang their heads, and droop, and
wither. Do you guess the reason ? "

" No," the child replied.

" Because the memory of those who lie below passes
away so soon. At first they tend them, morning, noon,
and night ; they soon begin to come less frequently;
from once a day to once a week ; from once a week to
once a month; then, at long and uncertain intervals;
then, not at all. Such tokens seldom flourish long. I
have known the briefest summer flowers outlive them."

" I grieve to hear it," said the child.

"Ah! so say the gentlefolks who come down here to
look about them," returned the old man, shaking his
head, " but I say otherwise. ' It's a pretty custom you
have in this part of the country,' they say to me some-
times, ' to plant the graves, but it's melancholy to see
these things all withering or dead.' I crave their pardon
and tell them that, as I take it, 'tis a good sign for the
happiness of the living. And so it is. It's nature."

"Perhaps the mourners learn to look to the blue sky by
day, and to the stars by night, and to think that the dead
are there, and not in graves," said the child in an earnest
voice

" Perhaps so," replied the old man doubtfully. " It
may be."

" Whether it be as I believe it is, or no," thought the
child within herself, " I'll make this place my garden. It
will be no harm at least to work here day by day, and
pleasant thoughts will come of it, I am sure."

At length she turned away, and walking thoughtfully
through the churchyard, came unexpectedly upon the
schoolmaster, who was sitting on a green grave in the
sun, reading.

" Nell here ? " he said cheerfully, as he closed his book.
" It does me good to see you in the air and light. I

3i6

feared you were again in the church, where you so often
are."

" Feared ! " replied the child, sitting down beside him.
" Is it not a good place ? "

" Yes, yes," said the schoolmaster. " But you must be
gay sometimes — nay, don't shake your head and smile so
very sadly."

" Not sadly, if you knew my heart. Do not look at me
as if you thought me sorrowful. There is not a happier
creature on the earth than I am now."

Full of grateful tenderness, the child took his hand, and
folded it between her own. " It's God's will ! " she said,
when they had been silent for some time.

" What ? "

" All this," she rejoined ; " all this about us. But which
of us is sad now ? You see that I am smiling."

" And so am I," said the schoolmaster ; " smiling to
think how often we shall laugh in this same place. Were
you not talking yonder ? "

" Yes," the child rejoined.

" Of something that has made you sorrowful I"

There was a long pause.

" What was it ? " said the schoolmaster, tenderly.
" Come. Tell me what it was."

" I rather grieve — I do rather grieve to think," said the
child, bursting into tears, " that those who die about us
are so soon forgotten."

" And do you think," said the schoolmaster, marking
the glance she had thrown around, " that an unvisited
grave, a withered tree, a faded flower or two, are tokens
of f orgetfulness or cold neglect ? Do you think there are
no deeds far away from here, in which these dead may
be best remembered ? Nell, Nell, there may be people
busy in the world at this instant, in whose good actions
and good thoughts these very graves — neglected as they
look to us — are the chief instruments."

3i7

" Tell me no more," said the child quickly. " Tell me no
more. I feel, I know it. How could I be unmindful of it,
when I thought of you ? "

" There is nothing," cried her friend, " no, nothing inno-
cent or good, that dies, and is forgotten. Let us hold to that
faith, or none. An infant, a prattling child, dying in its
cradle, will live again in the better thoughts of those who
loved it, and play its part, through them, in the redeem-
ing actions of the world, though its body be burned to
ashes or drowned in the deepest sea. There is not an
angel added to the Host of Heaven but does its blessed
work on earth in those that loved it here. Forgotten !
Oh, if the good deeds of human creatures could be tfaced
to their source, how beautifully would even death appear ;
for how much charity, mercy, and purified affection, would
be seen to have their growth in dusty graves ! "

" Yes," said the child, " it is the truth ; I know it is.
Who should feel its force so much as I, in whom your little
scholar lives again ! Dear, dear, good friend, if you knew
the comfort you have given me ! "

The poor schoolmaster made her no answer, but bent
over her in silence ; for his heart was full.

They were yet seated in the same place, when the
grandfather approached. Before they had spoken many
words together, the church clock struck the hour of school,
and their friend withdrew.

"A good man," said the grandfather, looking after him ;
" a kind man. Surely he will never harm us, Nell. We
are safe here, at last — eh ? We will never go away from
here?"

The child shook her head and smiled.

" She needs rest," said the old man, patting her cheek ;
" too pale — too pale. She is not like what she was."

" When ? " asked the child.

" Ha ! " said the old man, " to be sure-^when ? How

3i8

many weeks ago ? Could I count them on my fingers ?
Let them rest though ; they're better gone."

"Much better, dear," replied the child. " We will forget
them ; or, if we ever call them to mind, it shall be only as
some uneasy dream that has passed away."

" Hush ! " said the old man, motioning hastily to hen
with his hand and looking over his shoulder ; " No more
talk of the dream, and all the miseries it brought. There
are no dreams here. Tis a quiet place, and they keep
away. Let us never think about them, lest they should
pursue us again. Sunken eyes and hollow cheeks — wet,
cold, and famine — and horrors before them all, that were
even worse — we must forget such things if we would be
tranquil here."

" Thank Heaven ! " inwardly exclaimed the child, " for
this most happy change ! "

" I will be patient," said the old man, " humble, very
thankful and obedient, if you will let me stay. But do not
hide from me ; do not steal away alone ; let me keep be-
side you. Indeed, I will be very true and faithful,
Nell."

" I steal away alone ! Why that," replied the child, with
assumed gaiety, " would be a pleasant jest indeed. See
here, dear grandfather, we'll make this place our garden
—why not ? It is a very good one — and to-morrow we'll
begin and work together, side by side."

" It is a brave thought ! " cried her grandfather.
" Mind, darling — we begin to-morrow ! "

Who so delighted as the old man, when they next day
began their labor ! Who so unconscious of all associa-
tions connected with the spot, as he ! They plucked the
long grass and nettles from the tombs, thinned the poor
shrubs and roots, made the turf smooth, and cleared it of
the leaves and weeds. They were yet in the ardor of
their woik, when the child, raking her head from the

319

ground over which she bent, observed that the Bachelor
was sitting on the stile close by, watching them in silence.

" A kind office," said the little gentleman, nodding to
Nell as she courtesied to him. " Have you done all that,
this morning ? "

" It is very little, Sir," returned the child, with down-
cast eyes, " to what we mean to do."

" Good work, good work,'' said the Bachelor. " But do
you only labor at the graves of children, and young
people ? "

" We shall come to the others in good time, Sir,''
replied Nell, turning her head aside, and speaking softly.

It was a slight incident, and might have been design or
accident, or the child's unconscious sympathy with youth.
But it seemed to strike upon her grandfather, though he
had not noticed it before. He looked in a hurried man-
ner at the graves, then anxiously at the child, then
pressed her to his side, and bade her stop to rest. Some-
thing he had long forgotten appeared to struggle faintly
in his mind. It did not pass away, as weightier things
had done ; but came uppermost again, and yet again, and
many times that day, and often afterwards. Once, while
they were yet at work, the child, seeing that he often
turned and looked uneasily at her, as though he were try-
ing to resolve some painful doubts or collect some scat-
tered thoughts, urged him to'tell the reason. But he said
it was nothing — nothing — and, laying her head upon his
arm, patted her fair cheek with his hand, and muttered
that she grew stronger every day, and would be a woman,
soon.

320

CHAPTER THE FORTY-SECOND

From that time, there sprang up in the old man's mind
a solicitude about the child which never slept or left him.
He would follow her up and down, waiting till she should
tire and lean upon his arm — he would sit opposite to her
in the'chimney corner, content to watch, and look, until
she raised her head and smiled upon him as of old — he
would discharge, by stealth, those household duties which
tasked her powers too heavily — he would rise, in the cold
dark nights, to listen to her breathing in her sleep, and
sometimes crouch for hours by her bedside only to touch
her hand. He who knows all, can only know what hopes,
and fears, and thoughts of deep affection, were in that
one disordered brain, and what a change had fallen on
the poor old man.

Sometimes — weeks had crept on, then — the child,
exhausted, though with little fatigue, would pass whole
evenings on a couch beside the fire. At such times, the
schoolmaster would bring in books, and read to her aloud ;
and seldom an evening passed, but the Bachelor came in,
and took his turn of reading. The old man sat and listened,
— with little understanding for the words, but with his
eyes fixed upon the child, — and if she smiled or bright-
ened with the story, he would say it was a good one, and
conceive a fondness for the very book. When, in their
evening talk, the Bachelor told some tale that pleased her
(as his tales were sure to do), the old man would painfully
try to store it in his mind ; nay, when the Bachelor left
them, he would sometimes slip out after him, and humbly
beg that he would tell him such a part again, that he
might learn to win a smile from Nell.

But these were rare occasions, happily ; for the child
yearned to be out of doors, and walking in her solemn

321

garden. Parties, too, would come to see the church ; and
those who came, speaking to others of the child, sent more ;
so that even at that season of the year they had visitors
almost daily. The old man would follow them at a little
distance through the building, listening to the voice he
loved so well ; and when the strangers left, and parted from
Nell, he would mingle with them to catch up fragments of
their conversation ; or he would stand for the same pur-
pose, with his gray head uncovered, at the gate, as they
passed through. They always praised the child, her
sense and beauty, and he was proud to hear them ! But
what was that, so often added, which wrung his heart,
and made him sob and weep alone, in some dull corner !
Alas ! even careless strangers — they who had no feeling
for her, but the interest of the moment — they who would
go away and forget next week that such a being lived — .
even they saw it — even they pitied her — even they bade
him good day compassionately, and whispered as they
passed.

The people of the village, too, of whom there was not
one but grew to have a fondness for poor Nell ; even
among them, there was the same feeling ; a tenderness
towards her — a compassionate regard for her, increasing
every day. The very schoolboys, light-hearted and
thoughtless as they were, even they cared for her. The
roughest among them was sorry if he missed her in the
usual place upon his way to school, and would turn out
of the path to ask for her at the latticed window. If she
were sitting in the church, they perhaps might peep in
softly at the open door ; but they never spoke to her, un-
less she rose and went to speak to them. Some feeling
was abroad which raised the child above them all.

So, when Sunday came. They were all poor country
people in the church, for the castle in which the old
family had lived was an empty ruin, and there were none

Little Nell.— 21.

322

but humble folks for seven miles around. There, as else-
where, they had an interest in Nell. They would gather
round her in the porch, before and after service ; young
children would cluster at her skirts ; and aged men and
women forsake their gossips, to give her kindly greeting.
None of them, young or old, thought of passing the child
without a friendly word. Many who came from three or
four miles distant, brought her little presents ; the hum-
blest and rudest had good wishes to bestow.

She had sought out some young children whom she had
seen playing in the churchyard, and hiding' from each
other with laughing faces. One of these was her little
favorite and friend, and often sat by her side in the
church, or climbed with her to the tower top. It was his
delight to help her, or to fancy that he did so, and they
soon became close companions.

It happened, that, as she was reading in the old spot by
herself one day, this child came running in with his eyes
full of tears, and after holding her from him and looking
at her eagerly for a moment, clasped his little arms pas-
sionately about her neck.

" What now ? " said Nell, soothing him. " What is the
matter ? "

" She is not one yet ! " cried the boy, embracing her
still more closely. " No, no. Not yet."

She looked at him wonderingly, and putting his hair

back from his face, and kissing him, asked what he meant,

"You must not be one, dear Nell," cried the boy.

" We can't see them. They never come to play with us,

or talk to us. Be what you are. You are better so."

" I do not understand you," said the child. " Tell me
what you mean,"

" Why, they say," replied the boy, looking up into her
face, " that you will be an angel, before the birds sing
again. But you won't be, will you ? Don't leave us.
Nell, though the sky is bright. Do not leave us ! "

323

The child drooped her head, and put her hands before
her face.

" She cannot bear the thought ! " cried the boy, exult-
ing through his tears. " You will not go. You know
how sorry we should be. Dear Nell, tell me that you'll
stay amongst us. Oh, pray, pray, tell me that you will ! "

The little creature folded his hands, and knelt down at
her feet.

" Only look at me, Nell," said the boy, " and tell me
that you'll stop, and then I shall know that they are
wrong, and will cry no more. Won't you say yes, Nell ? "

Still the drooping head and hidden face, and the child
quite silent — save for her sobs.

" After a time," pursued the boy, trying to draw away
her hand, " the kind angels will be glad to think that you
are not among them, and that you stayed here to be with
us. Willy went away, to join them ; but if he had known
how I should miss him in our little bed at night, he never
would have left me, I am sure."

Yet the child could make him no answer, and sobbed
as though her heart were bursting.

" Why would you go, dear Nell ? I know you would
not be happy when you heard that we were crying for
your loss. They say that Willy is in Heaven now, and
that it's always summer there, and yet I'm sure he grieves
when I lie down upon his garden bed, and he cannot turn
to kiss me. But if you do go, Nell," said the boy, caress-
ing her, and pressing his face to hers, " be fond of him,
for my sake. Tell him how I love him still, and how
much I loved you ; and when I think that you two are
together, and are happy, I'll try to bear it, and never give
you pain by doing wrong — indeed I never will ! " .

The child suffered him to move her hands, and put them
round his neck. There was a tearful silence, but it was
not long before she looked upon him with a smile, and

324

promised him, in a very gentle, quiet voice, that she
would stay, and be his friend, as long as Heaven would
let her. He clapped -his hands for joy, and thanked her
many times; and being charged to tell no person what had
passed between them, gave her an earnest promise that he
never would.

Nor did he, so far as the child could learn; but was her
quiet companion in all her walks and musings, and never
again adverted to the theme, which he felt had given her
pain, although he was unconscious of its cause. Some-
thing of distrust lingered about him still; for he would
often come, even in the dark evenings, and call in a timid
voice outside the door to know if she were safe within;
and being answered yes, and bidden to enter, would take
his station on a low stool at her feet, and sit there
patiently until they came to seek, and take him home.
Sure as the morning came, it found him lingering near the
house to ask if she were well; and, morning, noon, or
night, go where she would, he would forsake his playmates
and his sports to bear her company.

CHAPTER THE FORTY-THIRD.

We will again take up the narrative of Kit, whom we
left escorting his mother home from the coach office on
her return from the journey which the single gentleman
had taken her in his search for the old man and child.

One evening some time after that fruitless expedition,
Mr. Garland called Kit to him, and taking him into a room
where they could be alone, told him that he had something
yet to say, which would surprise him greatly. Kit looked
so anxious and turned so pale on hearing this, that the old
gentleman hastened to add, he would be agreeably sur-

3 2 S

prised; and asked him if he would be ready next morning
for a journey.

" For a journey, Sir ! " cried Kit.

" In company with me and my friend in the next room.
Can you guess its purpose ? "

Kit turned paler yet, and shook his head.

"Oh yes. I think you do already," said his master.
"Try."

Kit murmured something rather rambling and unintel-
ligible, but he plainly pronounced the words " Miss Nell,"
three or four times — shaking his' head while he did so, as
if he would add there was no hope of that.

But Mr. Garland, instead of saying " Try again," as
Kit had made sure he would, told him very seriously that
he had guessed right.

" The place of their retreat is indeed discovered," he
said, " at last. And that is our journey's end."

Kit faltered out such questions as, where was it, and
how had it been found, and how long since, and was she
well, and happy.

" Happy she is, beyond all doubt," said Mr. Garland.
"And well, I — I trust she will be soon. She has been
weak and ailing, as I learn, but she was better when I
heard this morning, and they were full of hope. Sit you
down, and you shall hear the rest."

Scarcely venturing to draw his breath, Kit did as he
was told. Mr. Garland then related to him, how he had
a brother (of whom he would remember to have heard
him speak, and whose picture, taken when he was a young
man, hung in the best room), and how this brother lived a
long way off in a country place, with an old clergyman who
had been his early friend. How, although they loved
each other as brothers should, they had not met for many
years, but had communicated by letter from time to time,
always looking forward to some period when they would

326

take each other by the hand once more, and still letting
the present time steal on, as it was the habit of men to do,
and suffering the future to melt into the past. How
this brother whose temper was very mild and quiet and
retiring — such as Mr. Abel's — was greatly beloved by the
simple people among whom he dwelt, who quite revered
the Bachelor (for so they called him), and had every one
experienced his charity and benevolence. How even
those slight circumstances had come to his knowledge,
very slowly and in course of years, for the Bachelor was
one of those whose goodness shuns the light, and who
have more pleasure in discovering and extolling the good
deeds of others, than in trumpeting their own, be they
never so commendable. How, for that reason, he seldom
told them of his village friends ; but how, for all that, his
mind had become so full of two among them — a child
and an old man, to whom he had been very kind — that, in
a letter received a few days before, he had dwelt upon
them from first to last, and had told there such a tale of
their wanderings, and mutual love, that few could read it
without being moved to tears. How he, the recipient of
that letter, was directly led to the belief that these must
be the very wanderers for whom so much search had been
made, and whom Heaven had directed to his brother's
care. How he had written for such further information
as would put the fact beyond all doubt ; how it had that
morning arrived ; had confirmed his first impression into
a certainty ; and was the immediate cause of that journey
being planned, which. they were to take to-morrow.

" In the meantime," said the old gentleman rising, and
laying his hand on Kit's shoulder, " you have great need
of rest. Good night, and Heaven send our journey may
have a prosperous ending ! "

w

CHAPTER THE FORTY-FOURTH.

Kit was no sluggard next morning, but, springing from
his bed some time before day, began to prepare for his
welcome expedition. The hurry of spirits consequent
upon the unexpected intelligence he had heard at night,
had troubled his sleep through the long dark hours, and
summoned such uneasy dreams about his pillow that it
was rest to rise.

But had it been the beginning of some great labor with
the same end in view — had it been the commencement of
a long journey, to be performed on foot in that inclement
season of the year ; to be pursued under every privation
and difficulty, and to be achieved only with great dis-
tress, fatigue, and suffering — had it been the dawn of
some painful enterprise, certain to task his utmost powers
of resolution and endurance, and to need his utmost
fortitude, but only likely to end, if happily achieved, in
good fortune and delight to Nell — Kit's cheerful zeal
would have been as highly roused, Kit's ardor and im-
patience would have been at least the same.

Nor was he alone excited and eager. Before he had
been up a quarter of an hour the whole house were astir
and busy. Everybody hurried to do something towards
facilitating the preparations. The single gentleman, it is
true, could do nothing himself, but he overlooked every-
body else and was more locomotive than anybody. The
work of packing and making ready went briskly on, and
by daybreak every preparation for the journey was com-
pleted. Then Kit began to wish they had not been quite
so nimble ; for the traveling carriage which had been
hired for the occasion was not to arrive until nine o'clock,
and there was nothing but breakfast to fill up the inter-
vening blank of one hour and a half.

328

Yes there was, though. There was Barbara. Barbara
was busy, to be sure, but so much the better — Kit could
help her, and that would pass away the time better than
any means that could be devised. Barbara had no objec-
tion to this arrangement, and Kit began to think that
surely Barbara was fond of him, and surely he was fond
of Barbara.

Now, Barbara, if the truth must be told — as it must and
ought to be — Barbara seemed, of all the little household,
to take least pleasure in the bustle of the occasion ; and
when Kit, in the openness of his heart, told her how glad
and overjoyed it made him, Barbara became more down-
cast still, and seemed to have even less pleasure in it than
before !

" You'll say she has the sweetest and beautifulest face
you ever saw, I know," said Kit, rubbing his hands. " I'm
sure you'll say that ! "

Barbara tossed her head again.

" What's the matter, Barbara ? " said Kit.

" Nothing," cried Barbara. And Barbara pouted — not
sulkily, or in an ugly manner, but just enough to make
her look more cherry-lipped than ever.

" Barbara," said Kit, " you're not cross with me ? "

Oh dear no ! Why should Barbara be cross ? And what
right had she to be cross ? And what did it matter
whether she was cross or no ? Who minded her !

" Why, / do," said Kit. " Of course I do."

Barbara didn't see why it was of course, at all.

Kit was sure she must. Would she think again ?

Certainly, Barbara would think again. No, she didn't
see why it was of course. She didn't understand what
Christopher meant. And besides she was sure they
wanted her upstairs by this time, and she must go, in-
deed —

" No, but Barbara," said Kit, detaining her gently, " let
us part friends."

329

Goodness gracious, how pretty Barbara was when she
colored — and when she trembled, like a little shrinking
bird !

" I am telling you the truth, Barbara, upon my word,
but not half so strong as I could wish," said Kit, earn-
estly. "When I want you to be pleased to see Miss Nell,
it's only because I like you to be pleased with what pleases
me — that's all. As to her, Barbara, I think I could al-
most die to do her service, but you would think so too if
you knew her as I do. I am sure you would."

Barbara was touched, and sorry to have appeared in-
different.

" I have been used, you see," said Kit, " to talk and
think of her, almost as if she was an angel. When I look
forward to meeting her again, I think of her smiling as
she used to do, and being glad to see me, and putting out
her hand and saying, ' It's my own old Kit,' or some such
words as those — like what she used to say. I think of
seeing her happy, and with friends about her, and brought
up as she deserves, and as she ought to be. When I think
of myself, it's as her old servant, and one that loved her
dearly, as his kind, good, gentle mistress ; and who would
have gone — yes, and still would go — through any harm to
serve her. Once I couldn't help being afraid that if she
came back with friends about her she might forget, or be
ashamed of having known, a humble lad like me, and so
speak coldly, which would have cut me, Barbara, deeper
than I can tell. But when I came to think again, I felt
sure that I was doing her wrong in this ; and so I went
on as I did at first, hoping to see her once more, just as
she used to be. Hoping this, and remembering what she
was, has made me feel as if I would always try to please
her, and always be what I should like to seem to her if I
was still her servant. If I'm the better for that — and I
don't think I'm the worse — I am grateful to her for it, and

330

love and honor her the more. That's the plain honest
truth, dear Barbara, upon my word it is ! "

Little Barbara was not of a wayward or capricious
nature, and, being full of remorse, melted into tears. To
what further conversation this might have led, we need
not stop to inquire ; for the wheels of the carriage were
heard at that moment, and, being followed by a smart ring
at the garden gate, caused the bustle in the house, which
had lain dormant for a short time, to burst again into ten-
fold life and vigor.

Simultaneously with the traveling equipage, arrived Mr.
Chuckster in a hackney cab, with certain papers and
supplies of money for the single gentleman, into whose
hands he delivered them. This duty discharged, he sub-
sided into the bosom of the family, and entertaining him-
self with a strolling or peripatetic breakfast, watched
with a genteel indifference the process of loading the
carriage.

Barbara was the subject of Mr. Chuckster's commenda-
tions ; and as she was lingering near the carriage (all be-
ing now ready for its departure), that gentleman was
suddenly seized with a strong interest in the proceedings,
which impelled him to swagger down the garden, and take
up his position at a convenient ogling distance. Having
had great experience of the sex, and being perfectly ac-
quainted with all those little artifices which find the readi-
est road to their hearts, Mr. Chuckster, on taking his
ground, planted one hand on his hip, and with the other
adjusted his flowing hair. This is a favorite attitude in
the polite circles, and accompanied with a graceful whis-
tling has been known to do immense execution.

Such, however, is the difference between town and
country, that nobody took the smallest notice of this in-
sinuating figure ; the wretches being wholly engaged in
bidding the travelers farewell, in kissing hands to each

33i

other, waving handkerchiefs, and the like tame and vulgar
practices. For now the single gentleman and Mr. Gar-
land were in the carriage, and the post boy was in the sad-
dle, and Kit, well wrapped and muffled up, was in the
rumble behind ; and Mrs. Garland was there, and Mr.
Abel was there, and Kit's mother was there, and little
Jacob was there, and Barbara's mother was visible in
remote perspective, nursing the ever-wakeful baby ; and
all were nodding, beckoning, courtesying, or crying out
" Good bye ! " with all the energy they could express. In
another minute, the carriage was out of sight ; and Mr.
Chuckster remained alone upon the spot where it had
lately been, with a vision of Kit standing up in the rumble
waving his hand to Barbara, and of Barbara in the full
light and luster of his eyes — his eyes — Chuckster's —
Chuckster the successful — on whom ladies of quality had
looked with favor from phaetons in the parks on Sundays
—waving hers to Kit !

How Mr. Chuckster, entranced by this monstrous fact,
stood for some time rooted to the earth, protesting within
himself that Kit was the very Emperor or Great Mogul of
Snobs, and how he clearly traced this revolting circum-
stance back to that old villainy of the shilling, are matters
foreign to our purpose ; which is to track the rolling
wheels, and bear the travelers company on their cold,
bleak journey.

It was a bitter day. A keen wind was blowing, and
rushed against them fiercely, bleaching the hard ground,
shaking the white frost from the trees and hedges, and
whirling it away like dust. But little cared Kit for
weather. There was a freedom and freshness in the wind,
as it came howling by, which, let it cut never so sharp, was
welcome. As it swept on with its cloud of frost, bearing
down the dry twigs and boughs and withered leaves, and
carrying them away pell-mell, it seemed as though some

332

general sympathy had got abroad, and everything was in
a hurry like themselves. The harder the gusts, the better
progress they appeared to make. It was a good thing to
go struggling and fighting forward, vanquishing them one
by one ; to watch them driving up, gathering strength and
fury as they came along ; to bend for a moment as they
whistled past ; and then to look back and see them speed
away, their hoarse noise dying in the distance, and the
stout trees cowering down before them.

All day long it blew without cessation. The night was
clear and starlight, but the wind had not fallen, and the
cold was piercing. Sometimes — towards the end of a
long stage — Kit could not help wishing it were a little
warmer: but when they stopped to change horses, and he
had had a good run ; and what with that, and the bustle of
paying the old postilion, and rousing the new one, and
running to and fro again until the horses were put to, he
was so warm that the blood tingled and smarted in his
fingers' ends; then he felt as if to have it one degree less
cold would be to lose half the delight and glory of the
journey: and up he jumped again right cheerily, singing
to the merry music of the wheels as they rolled away, and,
leaving the townspeople in their warm beds, pursued their
course along the lonely road.

Meantime the two gentlemen inside, who were little
disposed to sleep, beguiled the time with conversation.
As both were anxious and expectant, it naturally turned
upon the subject of their expedition, on the manner in
which it had been brought about, and on the hopes and
fears they entertained respecting it. Of the former they
had many, of the latter few — none perhaps beyond that
indefinable uneasiness which is inseparable from suddenly
awakened hope, and protracted expectation.

In one of the pauses of their discourse, and when half
the night had worn away, the single gentleman, who had

333

gradually become more and more silent and thoughtful,
turned to his companion and said abruptly:

" Are you a good listener ? "

" Like most other men, I suppose," returned Mr. Gar-
land, smiling. " I can be, if I am interested; and if not
interested I should still try to appear so. Why do you
ask?"

"I have a short narrative on my lips," rejoined his
friend, " and will try you with it. It is very brief."

Pausing for no reply, he laid his hand on the old gentle-
man's sleeve, and proceeded thus:

" There were once two brothers, who loved each other
dearly. There was a disparity in their ages — some twelve
years. I am not sure but they may insensibly have loved
each other the better for that reason. Wide as the inter-
val between them was, however, they became rivals too
soon. The deepest and strongest affection of both their
hearts settled upon one object.

" The youngest — there were reasons for his being sensi-
tive and watchful — was the first to find this out. I will
not tell you what misery he underwent, what agony of
soul he knew, how great his mental struggle was. He had
been a sickly child. His brother, patient and considerate
in the midst of his own high health and strength, had
many and many a day denied himself the sports he loved,
to sit beside his couch, telling him old stories till his pale
face lighted up with an unwonted glow; to carry him in
his arms to some green spot, where he could tend the
poor, pensive boy as he looked upon the bright summer
day, and saw all nature healthy but himself; to be in any
way his fond and faithful nurse. I may not dwell on all
he did, to make the poor, weak creature love him, or my
tale would have no end. But when the time of trial came,
the younger brother's heart was full of those old days.
Heaven strengthened it to repay the sacrifices of incon-

334

siderate youth by one of thoughtful manhood. He left
his brother to be happy. The truth never passed his lips,
and he quitted the country, hoping to die abroad.

" The elder brother married her. She was in Heaven
before long, and left him with an infant daughter.

" If you have seen the picture gallery of any one old
family, you will remember how the same face and figure —
often the fairest and slightest of them all — come upon you
in different generations; and how you trace the same
sweet girl through a long line of portraits — never growing
old or changing — the good angel of the race — abiding by
them in all reverses — redeeming all their sins —

" In this daughter the mother lived again. You may
judge with what devotion he who lost that mother almost
in the winning, clung to this girl, her breathing image.
She grew to womanhood, and gave her heart to one who
could not know its worth. Well ! Her fond father could
not see her pine and droop. He might be more deserving
than he thought him. He surely might become so with a
wife like her. He joined their hands, and they were
married.

"Through all the misery that followed this union;
through all the cold neglect and undeserved reproach;
through all the poverty he brought upon her; through all
the struggles of their daily life, too mean and pitiful to tell,
but dreadful to endure; she toiled on, in the deep devotion
of her spirit, and in her better nature, as only women can.
Her means and substance wasted; her father nearly beg-
gared by her husband's hand, and the hourly witness (for
they lived now under one roof) of her ill-usage and un-
happiness, — she never, but for him, bewailed her fate.
Patient, and upheld by strong affection to the last, she
died a widow of some three weeks' date, leaving to her
father's care two orphans; one a son of ten or twelve
years old ; the other a girl — such another -infant child —

335

the same in helplessness, in age, in form, in feature — as
she had been herself when her young mother died.

" The older brother, grandfather to these two children,
was now a broken man ; crushed and borne down, less by
the weight of years than by the heavy hand of sorrow.
With the wreck of his possessions, he began to trade — in
pictures first, and then in curious, ancient things. He had
entertained a fondness for such matters from a boy, and
the tastes he had cultivated were now to yield him an
anxious and precarious subsistence.

" The boy grew like his father in mind and person ;
the girl so like her mother, that when the old man had
her on his knee, and looked into her mild blue eyes, he
felt as if awakening from a wretched dream, and his
daughter were a little child again. The wayward boy
soon spurned the shelter of his roof, and sought associates
more congenial to his taste. The old man and the child
dwelt alone together.

" It was then, when the love of two dead people who
had been nearest and dearest to his heart, was all trans-
ferred to this slight creature ; when her face, constantly
before him, reminded him from hour to hour of the too
early change he had seen in such another — of all the suf-
fering he had watched and known, and all his child had
undergone ; when the young man's profligate and hard-
ened course drained him of money as his father's had, and
even sometimes occasioned them temporary privation and
distress ; it was then that there began to beset him,
and to be ever in his mind, a gloomy dread of poverty
and want. He had no thought for himself in this. His
fear was for the child. It was a specter in his house, and
haunted him night and day.

"The younger brother had been a traveler in many
countries, and had made his pilgrimage through life alone.
His voluntary banishment had been miscontrued, and he

336

had borne (not without pain) reproach and slight for do-
ing that which had wrung his heart, and cast a mournful
shadow on his path. Apart from this, communication be-
tween him and the elder was difficult, and uncertain, and
often failed ; still it was not so wholly broken off but
that he learned — with long blanks and gaps between each
interval of information — all that I have told you now.

"Then, dreams of their young, happy life — happy to
him though laden with pain and early care — visited his
pillow yet oftener than before ; and every night, a boy
again, he was at his brother's side. With the utmost
speed he could exert, he settled his affairs ; converted
into money all the goods he had ; and, with honorable
wealth enough for both, with open heart and hand, with
limbs that trembled as they bore him on, with emotion
such as men can hardly bear and live, arrived one evening
at his brother's door ! "

The narrator, whose voice had faltered lately, stopped.
"The rest," said Mr. Garland, pressing his hand, "I
know.''

" Yes," rejoined his friend, after a pause, " we may
spare ourselves the sequel. You know the poor result of
all my search. Even when, by dint of such inquiries as
the utmost vigilance and sagacity could set on foot, we
found they had been seen with two poor, traveling show-
men ; and in time, the actual place of their retreat ; even
then, we were too late. Pray God we are not too late
again ! "

"We cannot be," said Mr. Garland. "This time we
must succeed."

" I have believed and hoped so," returned the other.
" I try to believe and hope so still. But a heavy weight
has fallen on my spirits, my good friend, and the sadness
that gathers over me will yield to neither hope nor rea-
son."

337

"That does not surprise me," said Mr. Garland ; "it Is
a natural consequence of the events you have recalled ;
of this dreary time and place ; and above all, of this wild
and dismal night. A dismal night, indeed ! Hark ! how
the wind is howling I "

CHAPTER THE FORTY-FIFTH.

Day broke, and found them still upon their way. Since
leaving home, they had halted here and there for neces-
sary refreshment, and had frequently been delayed,
especially in the night time, by waiting for fresh horses.
They had made no other stoppages, but the weather con-
tinued rough, and the roads were often steep and heavy.
It would be night again before they reached their place
of destination.

Kit, all bluff and hardened with the cold, went on man-
fully ; and having enough to do to keep his blood circulat-
ing, to picture to himself the happy end of this adven-
turous journey, and to look about him and be amazed at
everything, .had little spare time for thinking of discom-
forts. Though his impatience, and that of his fellow-
travelers, rapidly increased as the day waned, the hours
did not stand still. The short daylight of winter soon
faded away, and it was dark again when they had yet
many miles to travel.

As it grew dusk, the wind fell ; its distant moanings
were more low and mournful ; and as it came creeping up
the road, and rattling covertly among the dry brambles on
either hand, it seemed like some great phantom for whom
the way was narrow, whose garments rustled as it stalked
along. By degrees it lulled and died away ; and then it
came on to snow.

Little Mil.— 22.

338

The flakes fell fast and thick, soon covering the ground
some inches deep, and spreading abroad a solemn still-
ness. The rolling wheels were noiseless ; and the sharp
ring and clatter of the horses' hoofs became a dull, muf-
fled tramp. The life of their progress seemed to be
slowly hushed, and something deathlike to usurp its
place.

Shading his eyes from the falling snow, which froze
upon their lashes and obscured his sight, Kit often tried
to catch the earliest glimpse of twinkling lights denoting,
their approach to some not distant town. He could des-
cry objects enough at such times, but none correctly.
Now a tall church spire appeared in view, which presently
became a tree, a barn, a shadow on the ground, thrown
on it by their own bright lamps. Now there were horse-
men, foot-passengers, carriages, going on before, or meet-
ing them in narrow ways ; which, when they were close
upon them, turned to shadows too. A wall, a ruin, a
sturdy gable end, would rise up in the road ; and when
they were plunging headlong at it, would be the road
itself. Strange turnings, too, bridges, and sheets of
water, appeared to start up here and there, making the
way doubtful and uncertain-; and yet they were on the
same bare road, and these things, like the others, as they
were passed, turned into dim illusions.

He descended slowly from his seat — for his limbs were
numbed — when they arrived at a lone posting house, and
inquired how far they had to go to reach their journey's
end. It was a late hour in such by-places, and the people
were abed ; but a voice answered from an upper window,
Ten miles. The ten minutes that ensued appeared an
hour ; but at the end of that time, a shivering figure led
out the horses they required, and after another brief de-
lay they were again in motion.

It was a cross-country road, full, after the first three or

339

four miles, of holes and cart ruts, which, being covered
by the snow, were so many pitfalls to the trembling
horses, and obliged them to keep a footpace. As it was
next to impossible for men so much agitated as they were
by this time, to sit still and move so slowly, all three got
out and plodded on behind the carriage. The distance
seemed interminable, and the walk was most laborious.
As each was thinking within himself that the driver must
have lost his way, a church bell, close at hand, struck the
hour of midnight, and the carriage stopped. It had
moved softly enough, but when it ceased to crunch the
snow, the silence was as' startling as if some great noise
had been replaced by perfect stillness.

"This is the place, gentlemen," said the driver, dis-
mounting from his horse, and knocking at the door of a
little inn. " Halloa ! Past twelve o'clock is the dead of
night here."

The knocking was loud and long, but it failed to rouse
the drowsy inmates. All continued dark and silent as
before. They fell back a little, and looked up at the
windows, which were mere black patches in the whitened
house front. No light appeared. The house might have
been deserted, or the sleepers dead, for any air of life it
had about it.

They spoke together, with a strange inconsistency, in
whispers ; unwilling to disturb again the dreary echoes
they had just now raised.

" Let us go on," said the younger brother, " and leave
this good fellow to wake them, if he can. I cannot rest
until I know that we are not too late. Let us go on, in
the name of Heaven ! "

They did so, leaving the postilion to order such accom-
modation as the house afforded, and to renew his knock,
ing. Kit accompanied them with a little bundle, which
he had hung in the carriage when they left home, and had

34Q

not forgotten since — the bird in his old cage — just as she
had left him. She would be glad to see her bird, he knew'

The road wound gently downward. As they proceeded,
they lost sight of the church whose clock they had heard,
and of the small village clustering round it. The knock-
ing, which was now renewed, and which in that stillness
they could plainly hear, troubled them. They wished the
man would forbear, or that they had told him not to break
the silence until they returned.

The old church tower, clad in a ghostly garb of pure,
cold white, again rose up before them, and a few moments
brought them close beside it. A venerable building —
gray, even in the midst of the hoary landscape. An
ancient sundial on the belfry wall was nearly hidden by
the snowdrift, and scarcely to be known for what it was.
Time itself seemed to have grown dull and old, as if no
day were ever to displace the melancholy night.

A wicket gate was close at hand, but there was more
than one path across the churchyard to which it led, and,
uncertain which to take, they came to a stand again.

The village street — if street that could be called which
was an irregular cluster of poor cottages of many heights
and ages, some with their fronts, some with their backs,
and some with gable ends towards the road, with here
and there a signpost, or a shed encroaching on the path —
was close at hand. There was a faint light in a chamber
window not far off, and Kit ran towards that house to
ask their way.

His first shout was answered by an old man within,
who presently appeared at the casement, wrapping some
garment round his throat as a protection from the cold,
and demanded who was abroad at that unseasonable hour,
wanting him.

" 'Tis hard weather this," he grumbled, " and not a
night to call me up in. My trade is not of that kind that

341

I need be roused from bed. The business on which folks
want me, will keep cold, especially at this season. What
do you want ?"

" I would not have roused you, if I had known you were
old and ill," said Kit.

" Old ! " repeated the other peevishly. " How do you
know I- am old ? Not so old as you think, friend, perhaps.
As to being ill, you will find many young people in worse
case than I am. More's the pity that it should be so — not
that I should be strong and hearty for my years, I mean,
but that they should be weak and tender. I ask your
pardon though," said the old man, " if I spoke rather
rough at first. My eyes are not good at night — that's
neither age nor illness ; they never were — and I didn't
see you were a stranger."

" I am sorry to call you from your bed," said Kit, " but
those gentlemen you may see by the churchyard gate are
strangers too, who have just arrived from a long journey,
and seek the parsonage house. You can direct us ?"

" I should be able to," answered the old man, in a
trembling voice, " for next summer I have been sexton
here good fifty years. The right-hand path, friend, is the
road. — There is no ill news for our good gentleman, I
hope ? "

Kit thanked him, and made him a hasty answer in the
negative ; he was turning back, when his attention was
caught by the voice of a child. Looking up, he saw a
very little creature at a neighboring window.

"What is that? " cried the child, earnestly. " Has my
dream come true ? Pray speak to me, whoever that is,
awake and up."

" Poor boy! " said the sexton, before Kit could answer,
" how goes it, darling ? "

"Has my dream come true?" exclaimed the child
again, in a voice so fervent that it might have thrilled to

342

the heart of any listener. " But no, that can never be.
How could it be — Oh ! how could it ! "

" I guess his meaning," said the sexton. " To thy bed
again, dear boy! "

" Ay ! " cried the child, in a burst of despair. " I
knew it could never be, I felt too sure of that, before I
asked. But, all to-night and last night too, it was the
same. I never fall asleep, but that cruel dream comes
back."

"Try to sleep again," said the old man, soothingly.
" It will go, in time."

" No, no, I would rather that it stayed — cruel as it is, I
would rather that it stayed," rejoined the child. " I am not
afraid to have it in my sleep, but I am so sad — so very,
very sad."

The old man blessed him, the child in tears replied
good night, and Kit was again alone.

He hurried back, moved by what he had heard, though
more by the child's manner than by anything he had said,
as his meaning was hidden from him. They took the path
indicated by the sexton, and soon arrived before the
parsonage wall. Turning round to look about them when
they had got thus far, they saw, among some ruined
buildings at a distance, one single solitary light.

It shone from what appeared to be an old oriel window,
and being surrounded by the deep shadows of overhang-
ing walls, sparkled like a star. Bright and glimmering as
the stars above their heads, lonely and motionless as
they, it seemed to claim some kindred with the eternal
lamps of Heaven, and to burn in fellowship with them.

"What light is that?" exclaimed the younger brother.

"It is surely," said Mr. Garland, "in the ruin where
they live. I see no other ruin hereabouts."

" They cannot," returned the brother hastily, " be wak-
ing at this late hour — "

343

Kit interposed directly, and begged that, while they
rang and waited at the gate, they would let him make his
way to where this light was, shining and try to ascertain
if any people were about. Obtaining the permission he
desired, he darted off with breathless eagerness, and, still
carrying the bird cage in his hand, made straight towards
the spot.

It was not easy to hold that pace among the graves,
and at another time he might have gone more slowly, or
round by the path. Unmindful of all obstacles, however,
he pressed forward without slackening his speed, and soon
arrived within a few yards of the window.

He approached as softly as he could, and advancing so
near the wall as to brush the whitened ivy with his dress,
listened. There was no sound inside. The church itself
was not more quiet. Touching the glass with his cheek,
he listened again. No. And yet there was such a silence
all around, that he felt sure he could have heard even the
breathing of a sleeper, if there had been one there.

A strange circumstance, a light in such a place at that
time of night, with no one near it.

A curtain was drawn across the lower portion of the
window, and he could not see into the room. But there
was no shadow thrown upon it from within. To have
gained a footing on the wall and tried to look in from
above, would have been attended with some danger — cer-
tainly with some noise, and the chance of terrifying the
child, if that really were her habitation. Again and again
he listened ; again and again the same wearisome blank.

Leaving the spot with slow and cautious steps, and
skirting the ruin for a few paces, he came at length to a
door. He knocked. No answer. But there was a curi-
ous noise inside. It was difficult to determine what it was.
It bore a resemblance to the low moaning of one in pain,
but it was not that, being far too regular and constant.

344

Now it seemed a kind of song, now a wail — seemed, that
is, to his changing fancy, for the sound itself was never
changed or checked. It was unlike anything he had ever
heard; and in its tone there was something fearful, chill-
ing, and unearthly.

The listener's blood ran colder now than ever it had
done in frost and snow, but he knocked again. There
was no answer, and the sound went on without any inter-
ruption. He laid his hand softly upon the latch, and put
his knee against the door. It was not secured on the in-
side, but yielded to the pressure, and turned upon its
hinges. He saw the glimmering of a fire upon the old
walls, and entered.

CHAPTER THE FORTY-SIXTH.

The dull, red glow of a wood fire — for no lamp or can-
dle burned within the room — showed him a figure/ seated
on the hearth with his back towards him, bending over
the fitful light. The attitude was that of one who sought
the heat. It was, and yet was not. The stooping posture
and the cowering form were there, but no hands were
stretched out to meet the grateful warmth, no shrug or
shiver compared its luxury with the piercing cold outside.
With limbs huddled together, head bowed down, arms
crossed upon the breast, and fingers tightly clenched, it
rocked to and fro upon its seat without a moment's pause,
accompanying the action with the mournful sound he had
heard.

The heavy door had closed behind him on his entrance,
with a crash that made him start. The figure neither
spoke nor turned to look, nor gave in any other way the
faintest sign of having heard the noise. The form was
that of an old man, his white head akin in color to the

345

moldering embers upon which he gazed. He, and the
failing light and dying fire, the time-worn room, the soli-
tude, the wasted life, and gloom, were all in fellowship.
Ashes, and dust, and ruin !

Kit tried to speak, and did pronounce some words,
though what they were he scarcely knew. Still the same
terrible, low cry went on— still the same rocking in the
chair — the same stricken figure was there, unchanged and
heedless of his presence.

He had his hand upon the latch, when something in the
form — distinctly seen as one log broke and fell, and, as it
fell, blazed up — arrested it. He returned to where he had
stood before — advanced a pace — another — another still.
Another, and he saw the face. Yes ! Changed as it was,
he knew it well.

" Master ! " he cried, stooping on one knee and catch-
ing at his hand. " Dear master. Speak to me ! "

The old man turned slowly towards him, and muttered
in a hollow voice :

'' This is another ! — How many of these spirits there
have been to-night ! "

" No spirit, master. No one but your old servant.
You know me now, I am sure ? Miss Nell — where is she
— where is she ? "

" They all say that ! " cried the old man. " They all
ask the same question. A spirit ! "

"Where is she?" demanded Kit. "Oh tell me but
that — but that, dear master ! "

" She is asleep — yonder — in there."

" Thank God ! "

" Ay ! Thank God ! " returned the old man. " I have
prayed to Him many, and many, and many a livelong
night, when she has been asleep, He knows. Hark !
Did she call?"

" I heard no voice,"

346

" You did. You hear her now. Do you tell me that
you don't hear that I "

He started up, and listened again.

" Nor that ? " he cried, with a triumphant smile. " Can
anybody know that voice so well as I ! Hush ! hush ! "

Motioning to him to be silent, he stole away into an-
other chamber. After a short absence (during which he
could be heard to speak in a softened, soothing tone) he
returned, bearing in his hand a lamp.

" She is still asleep,'! he whispered. " You were right,
She did not call — unless she did so in her slumber. She
has called to me in her sleep before now, Sir. As I sat by,
watching, I have seen her lips move, and have known,
though no sound came from them, that she spoke of me.
I feared the light might dazzle her eyes and wake her, so
I brought it here."

He spoke rather to himself than to the visitor, but when
he had put the lamp upon the table, he- took it up, as if
impelled by some momentary recollection or curiosity, and
held it near his face. Then, as if forgetting his motive in
the very action, he turned away and put it down again.

" She is sleeping soundly," he said ; " but no wonder.
Angel hands have strewn the ground deep with snow, that
the lightest footstep may be lighter yet ; and the very
birds are dead, that they may not wake her. She used
to feed them, Sir. Though never so cold and hungry,
the timid things would fly from us. They never flew
from her ! "

Again he stopped to listen, and scarcely drawing breath,
listened for a long, long time. That fancy past, he opened
an old chest, took out some clothes as fondly as if they
had been living things, and began to smooth and brush
them with his hand.

" Why dost thou lie so idle there, dear Nell," he mur-
mured, " when there are bright red berries out of doors

347

waiting for thee to pluck them ! Why dost thou lie so
idle there, when thy little friends come creeping to the
door, crying ' Where is Nell — sweet Nell ? ' — and sob, and
weep, because they do not see thee ? She was always
gentle with children. The wildest would do her bidding
— she had a tender way with them, indeed she had ! "

Kit had no power to speak. His eyes were filled with
tears.

" Her little homely dress, — her favorite ! " cried the
old man, pressing it to his breast, and patting it with his
shriveled hand. " She will miss it when she wakes. They
have hid it here in sport, but she shall have it — she shall
have it. I would not vex my darling, for the wide world's
riches. See here — these shoes — how worn they are — she
kept them to remind her of our last long journey. You
see where the little feet were bare upon the ground. They
told me, afterwards, that the stones had cut and bruised
them. She never told me that. No, no, God bless her !
And, I have remembered since, she walked behind me, Sir,
that I might not see how lame she was — but yet she had
my hand in hers, and seemed to lead me still."

He pressed them to his lips, and having carefully put
them back again, went on communing with himself —
looking wistfully from time to time towards the chamber
he had lately visited.

" She was not wont to be a lie-abed ; but she was well
then. We must have patience. When she is well again,
she will rise early, as she used to do, and ramble abroad
in the healthy morning time. I often tried to track the
way she had gone, but her small fairy footstep left no
print upon the dewy ground, to guide me. Who is that?
Shut the door ! Quick ! — Have we not enough to do to
drive away the marble cold, and keep her warm ! "

The door was indeed opened, for the entrance of Mr. Gar-
land and his friend, accompanied by two other persons.

348

These were the schoolmaster, and the Bachelor. The
former held a light in his hand. He had, it seemed, but
gone to his own cottage to replenish the exhausted lamp,
at the moment when Kit came up and found the old man
alone.

He softened again at sight of these two friends, and,
laying aside the angry manner — if to anything so feeble
and so sad the term can be applied — in which he had
spoken when the door opened, resumed his former seat,
and subsided, by little and little, into the old action, and
the old, dull, wandering sound.

Of the strangers he took no heed whatever. He had
seen them, but appeared quite incapable of interest or
curiosity. The younger brother stood apart. The Bach-
elor drew a chair towards the old man, and sat down close
beside him. After a long silence, he ventured to speak.

" Another night, and not in bed ! " he said softly ; " I
hoped you would be more mindful of your promise to me.
Why do you not take some rest ? "

" Sleep has left me," returned the old man. " It is all
with her ! "

" It would pain her very much to know that you were
watching thus," said the Bachelor. " You would not give
her pain ? "

" I am not so sure of that, if it would only rouse her.
She has slept so very long. And yet I am rash to say so.
It is a good and happy sleep — eh ? "

" Indeed it is," returned the Bachelor. " Indeed, in-
deed, it is ! "

" That's well !— And the waking,"— faltered the old
man.

" Happy too. Happier than tongue can tell, or heart
of man conceive."

They watched him as he rose and stole on tiptoe to the
other chamber where the lamp had been replaced. They

349

listened as he spoke again within its silent walls. They
looked into the faces of each other, and no man's cheek
was free from tears. He came back, whispering that she
was still asleep, but that he thought she had moved. It
was her hand, he said — a little — a very, very little — but he
was pretty sure she had moved it — perhaps in seeking
his. He had known her to do that before now, though in
the deepest sleep the while. And when he had said this,
he dropped into his chair again, and clasping his hands
above his head, uttered a cry never to be forgotten.

The poor schoolmaster motioned to the Bachelor that
he would come upon the other side, and speak to him.
They gently unlocked his fingers, which he had twisted in
his gray hair, and pressed them in their own.

" He will hear me," said the schoolmaster, " I am sure.
He will hear either me or you if we beseech him. She
would, at all times."

" I will hear any voice she liked to hear," cried the old
man. " I love all she loved ! "

" I know you do," returned the schoolmaster. " I am
certain of it. Think of her ; think of all the sorrows and
afflictions you have shared together ; of all the trials, and
all the peaceful pleasures, you have jointly known."

" I do. I do. I think of nothing else."

" I would have you think of nothing else to-night — of
nothing but those things which will soften your heart, dear
friend, and open it to old affections and old times. It is
so that she would speak to you herself, and in her name
it is that I speak now."

"You do well to speak softly," said the old man. "We
will not wake her. I should be glad to see her eyes again,
and to see her smile. There is a smile upon her young
face now, but it is fixed and changeless. I would have it
come and go. That shall be in Heaven's good time. We
will not wake her."

35°

" Let us not talk of her in her sleep, but as she used to
be when you were journeying together, far away — as she
was at home, in the old house from which you fled to-
gether—as she was in the old, cheerful time," said the
schoolmaster.

" She was always cheerful — very cheerful," cried the
old man, looking steadfastly at him. " There was ever
something mild and quiet about her, I remember, from the
first ; but she was of a happy nature."

" We have heard you say," pursued the schoolmaster,
" that in this, and in all goodness, she was like her mother.
You can think of, and remember her ? "

He maintained his steadfast look, but gave no answer.

" Or even one before her," said the Bachelor. " It is
many years ago, and affliction makes the time longer, but
you have not forgotten her whose death contributed to
make this child so dear to you, even before you knew her
worth or could read her heart ? Say, that you could carry
back your thoughts to very distant days — to the time of
your early life — when, unlike this fair flower, you did not
pass your youth alone. Say, that you could remember,
long ago, another child who loved you dearly, you being
but a child yourself. Say, that you had a brother, long
forgotten, long unseen, long separated from you, who now,
at last in your utmost need came back to comfort and
console you " —

" To be to you what you were once to him," cried the
younger, falling on his knee before him ; " to repay your
old affection, brother dear, by constant care, solicitude,
and love ; to be at your right hand, what he never ceased
to be when oceans rolled between us ; to call to witness
his unchanging truth and mindfulness of bygone days,
whole years of desolation. Give me but one word of
recognition, brother — and never — no never, in the
brightest moment of our youngest days, when, poor, silly

35i

boys, we thought to pass our lives together — have we been
half as dear and precious to each other as we shall be
from this time hence ! "

The old man looked from face to face, and his lips
moved ; but no sound came from them in reply.

" If we were knit together then," pursued the younger
brother, " what will be the bond between us now ! Out
love and fellowship began in childhood, when life was all
before us, and will be resumed when we have proved it,
and are but children at the last. As many restless spirits,
who have hunted fortune, fame, or pleasure through the
world, retire in their decline to where they first drew
breath, vainly seeking to be children once again before
they die, so we, less fortunate than they in early life, but
happier in its closing scenes, will set up our rest again
among our boyish haunts ; and going home with no hope
realized, that had its growth in manhood — carrying back
nothing that we brought away, but our old yearnings to
each other — saving no fragment from the wreck of life,
but that which first endeared it — may be indeed but
children as at first. And even," he added in an altered
voice, "even if what I dread to name has come to pass —
even if that be so, or is to be (which Heaven forbid and
spare us ! ) — still, dear brother, we are not apart, and have
that comfort in our great affliction."

By little and little, the old man had drawn back towards
the inner chamber, while these words were spoken. He
pointed there, as he replied, with trembling lips,

" You plot among you to wean my heart from her.
You never will do that — never while I have life. I have
no relative or friend but her — I never had — I never will
have. She is all in all to me. It is too late to part us
now."

Waving them off with his hand, and calling softly to
her as he went, he stole into the room. They who were

352

left behind drew close together, and after a few whispered
words — not unbroken by emotion, or easily uttered — fol-
lowed him. They moved so gently, that their footsteps
made no noise ; but there were sobs from among the
group, and sounds of grief and mourning.

For she was dead. There, upon her little bed, she lay
at rest. The solemn stillness was no marvel now.

She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free
from trace of pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed a
creature fresh from the hand of God, and waiting for the
breath of life ; not one who had lived and suffered death,

Her couch was dressed with here and there some win-
ter berries and green leaves, gathered in a spot she had
been used to favor. " When I die, put near me something
that has loved the light, and had the sky above it always."
Those were her words.

She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was
dead. Her little bird — a poor slight thing the pressure
of a finger would have crushed — was stirring nimbly in its
cage ; and the strong heart of its child mistress was mute
and motionless forever.

Where were the traces of her early cares, her suffer-
ings, and fatigues ? All gone. Sorrow was dead indeed
in her, but peace and perfect happiness were born ;
imaged in her tranquil beauty and profound repose.

And still her former self lay there, unaltered in this
change. Yes. The old fireside had smiled upon that
same sweet face ; it had passed like a dream through
haunts of misery and care ; at the door of the poor school-
master on the summer evening ; before the furnace fire
upon the cold, wet night; at the still bedside of the dying
boy, there had been the same mild, lovely look. So shall
we know the angels in their majesty, after death.

The old man held one languid arm in his, and had the
small hand tight folded to his breast, for warmth. It was

353

the hand she had stretched out to him with her last smile
— the hand that had led him on through all their wander-
ings. Ever and anon he pressed it to his lips ; then
hugged it to his breast again, murmuring that it was
warmer now ; and as he said it he looked, in agony, to
those who stood around, as if imploring them to help her.

She was dead, and past all help, or need of it. The
ancient rooms she had seemed to fill with life, even while
her own was waning fast — the garden she had tended —
the eyes she had gladdened — the noiseless haunts of many
a thoughtful hour — the paths she had trodden as it were
but yesterday — could know her no more.

" It is not," said the schoolmaster, as he bent down to
kiss her on the cheek, and gave his tears free vent, " it is
not on earth that Heaven's justice ends. Think what it
is, compared with the World to which her young spirit
has winged its early flight, and say, if one deliberate wish
expressed in solemn terms above this bed could call her
back to life, which of us would utter it ! "

CHAPTER THE FORTY-SEVENTH.

The child who had been her little friend came there
almost as soon as it was day, with an offering of dried
flowers which he begged them to lay upon her breast. It
was he who had come to the window overnight and spoken
to the sexton, and they saw in the snow traces of small
feet, where he had been lingering near the room in which
she lay before he went to bed. He had a fancy, it seemed,
that they had left her there alone ; and could not bear
the thought.

He told them of his dream again, and that it was of her.
being restored to them, just as she used to be. He
begged hard to see her, saying that he would be very

Little Nell.—zz.

3S4

quiet, and that they need not fear his being alarmed, for
he had sat alone by his young brother all day long, when
he was dead, and had felt glad to be so near him. They
let him have his wish ; and indeed he kept his word, and
was in his childish way a lesson to them all.

Up to that time, the old man had not spoken once —
except to her — or stirred from the bedside. But. when he
saw her little favorite, he was moved as they had not seen
him yet, and made as though he would have him come
nearer. Then pointing to the bed, he burst into tears for
the first time, and they who stood by, knowing that the
sight of this child had done him good, left them alone
together.

Soothing him with his artless talk of her, the child per-
suaded him to take some rest, to walk abroad, to do
almost as he desired him. And when the day came on,
which must remove her in her earthly shape from earthly
eyes forever, he led him away, that he might not know
when she was taken from him.

It was late when the old man came home. The boy had
led him to his own dwelling, under some pretense, on their
way back ; and, rendered drowsy by his long ramble and
late want of rest, he had sunk into a deep sleep by the
fireside. He was perfectly exhausted, and they were care-
ful not to rouse him. The slumber held him a long time,
and when he at length awoke the moon was shining.

The younger brother, uneasy at his protracted absence,
was watching at the door for his coming, when he appeared
in the pathway with his little guide. He advanced to
meet them, and tenderly obliging the old man to lean upon
his arm, conducted him with slow and trembling steps
towards the house.

He repaired to her chamber, straight. Not finding
what he had left there, he returned with distracted looks
to the room in which they were assembled. From that,

355

he rushed into the schoolmaster's cottage, calling her
name. They followed close upon him, and when he had
vainly searched it, brought him home.

With such persuasive words as pity and affection could
suggest, they prevailed upon him to sit among them and
hear what they should tell him. Then, endeavoring by
every little artifice to prepare his mind for what must
come, and dwelling with many fervent words upon the
happy lot to which she had been removed, they told him,
at last, the truth. The moment it had passed their lips,
he fell down among them like a murdered man.

For many hours, they had little hope of his surviving ;
but grief is strong, and he recovered.

Whatever power of thought or memory he retained was
all bound up in her. He never understood, or seemed to
care to understand, about his brother. To every endear-
ment and attention he continued listless. If they spoke
to him on this, or any other theme — save one — he would
hear them patiently for awhile, then turn away, and go on
seeking as before.

They bethought them of a removal from the scene of
this last sorrow ; of trying whether change of place would
rouse or cheer him. His brother sought the advice of
those who were accounted skillful in such matters, and
they came and saw him. Some of the number stayed upon
the spot, conversed with him when he would converse,
and watched him as he wandered up and down, alone and
silent. Move him where they might, they said, he would
ever seek to get back there. His mind would run upon
that spot. If they confined him closely, and kept a strict
guard upon him, they might hold him prisoner, but if he
could by any means escape, he would surely wander
back to that place, or die upon the road.

The boy, to whom he had submitted at first, had no
longer any influence with him. At times he would suffer

356

the child to walk by his side,' or would even take such
notice of his presence as giving him his hand, or would
stop to kiss his cheek, or pat him on the head. At other
times, he would entreat him — not unkindly — to be gone
and would not brook him near, But whether alone ; or
with this pliant friend ; or with those who would have
given him, at any cost or sacrifice, some consolation or
some peace of mind, if happily the means could have been
devised ; he was at all times the same — with no love or
care for anything in life— a broken-hearted man.

At length they found one day that he had risen early,
and, with his knapsack on his back, his staff in hand, her
own straw hat, and little basket full of such things as she
had been used to carry, was gone. As they were making
ready to pursue him far and wide, a frightened schoolboy
came who had seen him, but a moment before, sitting in
■ the church — upon her grave, he said.

They hastened there, and going softly to the door,
.espied him in the attitude of one who waited patiently.
They did not disturb him then, but kept a watch upon
him all that day. When it grew quite dark, he rose and
returned home, and went to bed, murmuring to himself,
" She will come to-morrow ! "

Upon the morrow he was there again from sunrise until
night ; and still at night he laid him down to rest, and
muttered, " She will come to-morrow ! "

And thenceforth, every day, and all day long, he waited
at her grave for her. How many pictures of new journeys
over pleasant country, of resting places under the free,
broad sky, of rambles in the fields and woods, and paths
not often trodden — how many tones of that one well-
remembered voice — how many glimpses of the form, the
fluttering dress, the hair that waved so gaily in the wind —
how many visions of what had been, and what he hoped
was yet to be — rose up before him, in the old, dull, silent

357

church ! He never told them whathe thought, or where
he went. He would sit with them at night, pondering
with a secret satisfaction, they could see, upon the flight
that he and she would take before night came again ; and
still they would hear him whisper in his prayers, " Oh
let her come to-morrow ! "

The last time was on a genial day in spring. He did
not return at the usual hour, and they went to seek him.
He was lying dead upon the stone.

They laid him by the side of her whom he had loved so
well ; and, in the church where they had often prayed,
and mused, and lingered hand in hand, the child and the
old man slept together.

THE END.

SCHOOL EDITIONS OF
STANDARD FICTION

Baldwin's Don Quixote for Children . . . . $°-S°

Stories of the King 50

Cooper's Adventures of Deerskyer (Haight) . . . .35

Cooper's Last of the Mohicans (Haight) 35

Cooper's Adventures of Pathfinder (Haight) . . . .35
Defoe's Robinson Crusoe (Stephens) . . - . . . .50
Defoe's Robinson Crusoe Retold . (Baldwin) . . . .35
Dickens's Story of Little Nell — From The Old Curi-
osity Shop (Gordon) 50

Dickens's Tale of Two Cities (Kirk) 50

Dickens's Twelve Christmas Stories (Gordon) . . . .50
Dickens's Child's Oliver Twist and David Copper-
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Lambs' Tales from Shakespeare — Tragedies (Rolfe) . .50
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(26)

BALDWIN AND BENDER'S
READERS

Reading with Expression

By JAMES BALDWIN, Author of Baldwin's School Read-
ers, Harper's Readers, etc. and IDA C. .BENDER,
Supervisor of Primary Grades, Buffalo, New York.

AN EIGHT BOOK SERIES or A FIVE BOOK SERIES

THE authorship of this series is conclusive evidence of
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^[ These readers are very teachable and readable, and are un-
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^[ The Readers on Commerce and Industry take up the
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__ __ _ _ ___

JAMES OTIS'S
COLONIAL SERIES

Calvert of Maryland Richard of Jamestown

Mary of Plymouth Ruth of Boston

Peter of New. Amsterdam Stephen of Philadelphia

Price, each, 35 cents. For years 3-5

DON'T you remember the "Toby Tyler" stories,
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■^[ Here are six new stories by the same author, James Otis,
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^[ The style in which the children tell the stories reads as
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HICKS'S C HAM PION
SPELLING BOOK

By WARREN E. HICKS, Assistant Superintendent of
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Complete, Jo. 25 - Part One, Jo. 18 Part Two, Jo. 1 8

THIS book embodies the method that enabled the pupils
in the Cleveland schools after two years to. win the Na-
tional Education Association Spelling Contest of 1908.
^f By this method a spelling lesson often words is given each
day from the spoken vocabulary of the pupil. Of these ten
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_____ __ _ _ . _

GRADED WORK IN
ARITHMETIC

By S. W. BAIRD, Principal, Franklin Grammar
School, Wilkesbarre, Pa.

First Year Boards, Jo. 1 8 Cloth, Jo. 20

Second Year " .18

Third Year " .20

Fourth Year " .20

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Sixth Year

Seventh Year

Eighth Year

Practical Arithmetic for Grammar Grades ....

.20
•*5
■*5
•2.5
•*5
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•»5
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THIS series consists of eight books designed for use in
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Common sense and the keen logic of the mathematician are
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MAXWELL'S
NEW GRAMMAR

By WILLIAM H. MAXWELL, Ph.D., LL.D.

Superintendent of Schools, City of New York

Elementary Grammar . . $0.40

School Grammar . . $0.60

THE ELEMENTARY GRAMMAR presents in very
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If It gives the pupil an insight into the general forms in which
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A novel device for parsing and analysis permits these two
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TJThe SCHOOL GRAMMAR contains everything needed
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It covers fully the requirements of the Syllabus in English
issued by the New York State Education Department.
^f The book treats of grammar only, and presents many
exercises which call for considerable reflection on the mean-
ing of the expressions to be analyzed. Throughout, stress
is laid on the broader distinctions of thought and expression.
The common errors of written and spoken language are so
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(78)

UNITED STATES HISTORIES

By JOHN BACH McMASTER, Professor of American
History, University of Pennsylvania

Primary History, $o. 60 School History, $1. 00 Brief History, $1. 00

THESE standard histories are remarkable for their
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^[ The PRIMARY HISTORY is simply and interestingly
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^f In the SCHOOL HISTORY by far the larger part of
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% In the BRIEF HISTORY nearly one-half the book
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Human Body and Health :

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^| That both personal and public health can be improved by
teaching certain basal truths, thus decreasing the death rate,
now so large from a general ignorance of common diseases,
^f That such instruction should show how these diseases,
colds, pneumonia, tuberculosis, typhoid fever, diphtheria, and
malaria are contracted and how they can be prevented.
^| That the foundation for much of the illness in later life is
laid by the boy and girl during school years, and that in-
struction which helps the pupils to understand the care of the
body, and the true value of fresh air, proper food, exercise, and
cleanliness, will add much to the wealth of a nation and the
happiness of its people.

AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY

RODDY'S GEOGRAPHIES

By JUSTIN RODDY, M.S., Department of Geography,
First Pennsylvania State Normal School, Millersville, Pa.

Elementary Geography . $0.50

Complete Geography . . $1.00

THIS "information" series meets a distinct demand for
new geographies which are thoroughly up to date, and
adapted for general use, rather than for a particular use
in a highly specialized and organized ideal system. While
. not too technical and scientific, it includes sufficient physio-
graphic information for the needs of most teachers.
^[ An adequate amount of material is included in each book
to meet the requirements of those grades for which it is designed.
This matter is presented so simply that the pupil can readily
understand it, and so logically that it can easily be taugh. by
the average teacher.

^[ The simplicity of the older methods of teaching this subject
is combined with just so much of the modern scientific methods
of presentation as is thoroughly adapted to elementary grades.
Only enough physiography is included to develop the funda-
mental relations of geography, and to animate and freshen the
study, without overloading it in this direction.
^f The physical maps of the grand divisions are drawn to the
same scale, thus enabling the pupil to form correct concepts
of the relative size of countries. The political and more de-
tailed maps are not mere skeletons, giving only the names
which are required by the text, but are full enough to serve
all ordinary purposes for reference. In addition, they show
the principal railroads and canals, the head of navigation on
all important rivers, and the standard divisions of time.
*([ The illustrations are new and fresh, reproduced mostly
from photographs collected from all parts of the world.
Formal map studies or questions accompany each map, direct-
ing attention to the most important features.

AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY

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